


Like the Tide Pulls Me Under

by redfantasyfox



Series: Like the Tide Pulls Me Under [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Rick Grimes, Daryl and Carol's relationship is really important to me, F/M, Heads up: there's semi-explicit f/m sex between Shane/Lori and Rick/Lori, I may or may not try to write their accent? I don't have much faith in myself in that area, I'll probably add more tags as I go along, M/M, Shane is a lowkey homophobic jerk, Slow Burn for Daryl/Rick, This may get explicit eventually? In terms of sex, University AU, Yes almost everyone is roughly the same age, Yes almost everyone is studying criminology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-06-06 17:05:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 34,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6762589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redfantasyfox/pseuds/redfantasyfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick Grimes draws the short straw on his first day of third year criminology. Now, instead of working alongside his best friend and the rest of the investigation team, he’s powdered with makeup and left bloodied on the classroom floor for the medical examination students to poke and prod. But Daryl Dixon’s touch is surprisingly confident, like he recognizes every curve of Rick’s body beneath his clothes—every scar, every muscle. And all at once, Rick realizes that while he’s never noticed Daryl before, Daryl has always noticed him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Daryl hated the sight of Rick on the floor. His eyes were closed, his breathing was quiet, and from a distance, he really did look like he’d been murdered, dark red blood splattered across his chest, face, and hands. But worse were the walls, showered in droplets, showing an initial point of impact—a gunshot, clean through the back of Rick’s head, the eerie shape of his body outlined against the peeling white paint. Like he had been cornered, and shot anyway. Like he’d tried to run, but never made it.

This wasn’t the first staged crime scene Daryl had ever worked, but it was his first time with a 'victim' who wasn’t from his more specialized criminology classes (usually it was Sasha who ended up with the short straw, her face to the cold tile and her loud curses echoing across the room whenever someone handled her too roughly). Expectations were high, of course, because after two years of working together, everyone was supposed to know exactly how to act around each other: they knew who was ticklish and where, who would kick them if they pressed too hard, and who would flinch at the touch of a cold instrument on their skin. Daryl was prepared for all that. He wasn’t prepared for Rick.

Like hell if he’d let that derail his first day as team lead, though.

With his group in tow, Daryl explored the makeshift crime scene. Yellow caution tape marked the space around the room they were allowed to work in, the tiny guardrail woven between pieces of antique furniture that had likely been stolen from some old lady’s apartment. The floor was littered with ‘evidence’, catalogued with orange cones and faded black numbers. A bloody footprint had a number ‘3’ beside it, a spent cartridge a ‘9’. Stepping carefully, Daryl pointed to each item, just to make sure the people behind him didn’t accidentally disturb anything—they’d all lose points for that.

Rick was lying in what was supposed to look like a hallway, the adjacent rooms outlined with scotch tape and chalk labels that read ‘kitchen’ and ‘living room’. Rick’s body had been posed to look like he had slid down the wall, his legs out in front of him and his head near the baseboards. His shirt was covered in red and black grime, like he’d been stabbed, and the pool of blood beneath him was drying quickly, turning pink around the edges and betraying its true identity as food colouring. His hair was dark in some places, more towards the back, and beside his right ear was a few pieces of scrap metal, likely meant to simulate bullet fragments. There was even a thin line of blood that trailed from the edge of his lip down his chin, along his neck, and onto the floor.

“Thank god it’s not me today,” Sasha mumbled under her breath, the flash on her camera blinking quickly. “They did _not_ skimp on the special effects.”

“Stay in character, will ya?” Daryl whispered, gesturing to the left side of Rick’s body for more photos. The chatter would only distract him, and he was already distracted enough.

On his knees, Daryl rummaged through his medical bag. Pulling out a pair of plastic gloves, he tugged them carefully over his knuckles, wishing, as he always did, that they came in more than one size. When Sasha was done documenting the initial state of the body, she kneeled down on the other side of Rick, and together, she and Daryl started their search.

Sasha looked for Rick’s wallet first, pawing through his pockets. Daryl hesitated a moment too long, earning him a look of irritation, but he shrugged it off as to imply he was just trying to be careful. With his right hand on Rick’s left shoulder, and his left hand on Rick’s left hip, he gently pulled him sideways, giving Sasha access to Rick’s back pocket.

Rick had been given a fake name, and his driver’s license said he was thirty-five, wore glasses, and had two kids. There was a picture of his ‘family’, which of course was just a stock image; his wife was petite, and his two little girls had bright red hair. They looked nothing like him, with his dark curly hair and high cheekbones, his blue eyes and his long nose. It made everything feel kind of cheap.

“Should I take this to Shane?” Sasha asked, wiping some of the blood on the wallet onto her gloves. “He’s team lead for the investigators, right?”

Daryl just nodded, letting her wander off into the kitchen where several investigation students were crowded around a knife block—with, presumably, a knife or two conveniently missing.

The other members of his team bent down to get to work, moving their hands over Rick’s legs, ‘feeling’ for injuries they would eventually just identify based on the colour of the makeup stains on his pants. Daryl, as team lead, was left with Rick’s chest and head, a task he should really should be handling in a lab, with Rick on a metal table and a towel over his—

No. Daryl pushed that thought from his mind.

Knowing Rick likely died from the gunshot to his head, Daryl started with that. Carefully, he took Rick’s jaw between his fingers, turning his face first to the left, then the right. The shot was clean through the middle of his forehead, with dark soot around the wound. Apparently, the shot had been made at almost point-blank range. But why would Rick have let the gunman get so close to him?

Gently, Daryl cradled the back of Rick’s head and neck with his right hand. The makeup around his exit wound had been obscured by his time on the floor (and likely some degree of sweat), so there wasn’t much to see. Still, Daryl pretended to feel around with his other hand. “Evidence of one point of entry, one point of exit,” Daryl noted, more for the sake of procedure than anything else. This was basically textbook.

Placing Rick’s head back on the floor, Daryl moved to his chest. Somewhere ahead of him, he could hear Sasha telling Shane and—Andrea? It sounded like Andrea, but Daryl couldn’t be sure—about Rick’s wallet, along with her initial findings. To his left, the rest of his group chattered about blood loss and bloodstains. To his right, Rick was almost perfectly silent, his breaths shallow and measured, his eyelids fluttering just a little against his cheeks.

Even covered in blood, god, he—

 _Focus_ , Daryl reminded himself, tearing his eyes from Rick’s face, occupying himself with Rick’s chest instead. He swept his hands over the ‘wounds’, marking each, recording them on audio with an old-school tape-deck. Seventeen stab wounds, postmortem. Clear overkill. A crime of passion, perhaps.

Daryl traced his fingers over Rick’s ribs, noting which ones would have been nicked by the blade, which lung would have been punctured, which artery or vein would have been cut. The wounds were deep, he realized, but they hadn’t bled too much. Two different kinds of weapons were used, one jagged, another sharp. Maybe a third, but it was hard to tell. Evidence of more than one assistant?

As Daryl was moving back towards Rick’s stomach, he slipped into a small divert, and he heard Rick inhale sharply. His head jerked back just a little, like he’d been stung, and his forehead creased, right between his eyebrows. Daryl squeezed his shoulder in apology.

Touching Rick’s pelvis after that felt like cheating. Threading his fingers through the rips in his shirt, along the ridge of his bones, across the little strips of his skin. Rick was warm to the touch, even through Daryl’s glove, and his breaths trembled through him as he fought to keep his chest from moving too much.

“Hey,” Daryl whispered, trying to keep his voice from being heard by a prof. “You don’t have to hold your breath or anything. Not worth the work.”

And to Daryl’s surprise, Rick smiled. A small but honest pull of his lips.

And maybe Daryl could have taken a moment to enjoy that, if Rick hadn’t—just then—peaked open one of his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a moment to thank all of my early readers! I'm not used to a flurry of activity on any of my fics, so all the comments and kudos and views are really appreciated! <3

Rick knew Daryl’s name only from the initials stitched onto the front of his jacket.

D.D. Daryl Dixon.

Prior to that moment, Rick could only put Merle Dixon’s reputation to his brother’s name—a reputation as rough and foul as Merle’s tongue, studded with metal and bloody on curses and insults. Now, with Daryl crouched over his body, his warm hands on his chest and his fingers just under the hem of his jeans, Rick found Daryl to be nothing like his brother; instead, he was a pair of brilliant blue eyes, a shock of short, dark hair, and a soft woodsy smell, like pine and earth and bark and leaves. There was nothing callous about him, nothing violent; rather, he was quiet, with a cautious look in his eyes and confidence in his hands that belied the nervous lines around his mouth.

Sensing an opening, Rick considered what to say. Thank you, maybe? He had expected rougher hands on his skin, a mixture of uneasy poking and hurried touching; he had expected sharp prods and cold metal and harsh commands and maybe even a curse or two whenever he flinched. But Daryl had done none of that, even when he could of. He’d been careful, professional, maybe even _kind_ , if such a word could be used to describe how he moved his fingers along Rick’s bare skin, how gently he cradled Rick’s head, and how aware he was of Rick’s sensitive areas—like the bruise near the center of his chest, or the scar healing awkwardly on his left shoulder. Compared to some of the horror stories Shane and Andrea had teased him about, Daryl was a godsend, an absolute godsend.

So of course Rick had to make a complete and utter fool of himself. “Hi,” he whispered stupidly.

Daryl broke eye contact almost immediately. He looked down, maybe to a make-shift knife wound on Rick’s chest, maybe to the floor, then reached out slowly to cover Rick’s eyes with one of his hands. “Don’t make this weird,” he said, his voice tight.

Rick swallowed back a sudden wave of embarrassment. “Sorry. On it.”

Closing his eyes again, Rick waited for Daryl to move his hand. The smell of plastic was unpleasant, but the smell of the fake blood was worse—it was like wet-dog, mixed with drying cement. The absence of Daryl’s hand was strange too though; the touch had been reassuring, almost protective, and Rick felt ridiculously out of place otherwise, even under half a gallon of food colouring and thirty pounds of heavy foundation.

Hyperaware of Daryl’s every movement, Rick tried to distract himself by counting his breaths. He kept them shallow, so his chest wouldn’t move too much, but every now and again he allowed himself a regular breath, even a deep one, just to relieve the stress building across his ribs. And Daryl seemed to move with him, shifting to examine his arms or face whenever Rick needed a moment to breathe, running his fingers along Rick’s veins or brushing back his hair to better inspect his forehead.

Time passed quickly this way, and Daryl hardly said another word, even when one of the other M.E. students came over to speak to him. Rick imagined he spoke mostly with his hands, giving the other students time to make their own notes and draw their own conclusions, rather than just feeding them what he thought they needed to hear.

He had no choice but to speak to Shane, though.

“Hit me, Dixon,” Shane said, casual and out-of-character. Rick fought back half a grimace, picturing his best friend with ease, his shoulders thrown back a little, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes on Andrea, her notebook in her right hand while her left reached for the pen always tucked behind her ear.

Daryl took a moment to answer, and when he spoke, each word sounded measured, like a butcher trying to keep the weight of his meat as close to his customer’s directions as possible. “He died instantly,” Daryl explained, probably gesturing to Rick’s face. “Single gunshot to the head. Seventeen stab wounds to the chest, textbook overkill, made maybe two hours after death. Two weapons: one was probably a steak knife—thicker blade, long and sharp—but the other had a jagged edge.”

“Time of death?” Andrea asked.

A prof spoke up from somewhere across the room, providing Daryl with a temperature he couldn’t have guessed from Rick’s very alive and very warm body.

“36 hours ago,” he said, after scratching what was probably a few calculations on a piece of paper. A plastic sound accompanied his answer, and Rick realized Daryl had peeled off one of his gloves.

“How sure are you of that?” Shane asked, being unnecessarily difficult. Or ‘thorough’, as he preferred to call it.

Rick hoped Daryl was frowning, but somehow, he couldn’t picture it. He heard the sound of writing again, and Daryl returned the same answer. “36 hours.”

Andrea had a few more questions, but she asked Sasha instead, who spoke eagerly and quickly, her answers confident but lacking Daryl’s measured edge. Rick thought he could remember her touch, even though he’d never seen her hands on his body; she moved—he would guess—like she spoke, in a flurry, quick and light, either from half a lifetime of practice or half a week.

Still, Shane sounded impressed, and just like that, Daryl was forgotten, his presence at Rick’s side only noticeable because of the weight of his leg against Rick’s arm. Thinking about that made Rick feel like a moron—Daryl was team lead, and none of the investigators cared what he had to say?

Which only made him wonder why _he_ cared. Two hours ago, he couldn’t have picked Daryl’s face out of a photo lineup; like everyone else, he would have looked for a bald guy with heavy tattoos and a sour expression—someone who looked like a younger version of Merle, all bite and all bark.

Now, Rick considered Daryl’s insight almost invaluable. Sasha’s notes were shorter and more straightforward, which was helpful in its own way, but they felt empty in comparison to Daryl’s, which Rick had eavesdropped on all afternoon. Sasha was just as intelligent, there was no question of that, but Daryl seemed to have been more thorough in his work, more careful, making note of anything and everything, as if any piece of evidence or any detail could be important later on during the investigation. He had treated Rick like something _real_. He had treated this set-up, this situation, this entire exercise, like something _real_. And other than himself, and maybe Andrea, Rick wasn’t sure he knew another student quite like that.

So when class finally ended, and Rick peeled himself off the hard, tile floor, he had one thing on his mind.

(Okay, maybe two.)

First, a shower. But after that, asking Daryl Dixon for his phone number.


	3. Chapter 3

Like a highly-evolved predator built for speed and violence, Daryl had developed a keen ear for movement in the forensics lab. Breathing, footfalls, even the scrap of a finger along the edge of a desk; it was a hyperawareness of sound, of presence, of invasion and disturbance and distraction. It was the reason he preferred to work in the morgue, where the only sound was the numbness that rang off the walls when his thoughts filled every inch of the large, hollow space. It wasn’t silence that he craved—he couldn’t get anything done when the quiet was louder than his heartbeat. What he preferred was a kind of stillness.

A stillness that could be shattered by anything: voices, the elevator, the whirl of a machine, even the hiss of the shower at the back of the genetics lab.

It wasn’t a loud sound, the smattering of the water; it was rhythmic, and the smell of steam that lingered faintly in the air was soft and calming. But the soap was clinical, as was the shampoo, meaning it would only be another ten minutes or so before everything on the floor started to smell like something wheeled out of a deserted hospital.

Which would include Daryl, willingly or not, as he sat with his back against the front of a nearby desk, his tape recorder spinning quietly in his pocket.

He was an odd fixture, in his dark muddy boots and black leather jacket. The other students still working in the lab were dressed all in white, their eyes obscured, more often than not, by googles or a microscope. Daryl knew many of them, in his own way. He knew Maggie from the careful way she worked, as well as the meticulousness of her reports; he knew her younger sister, Beth, by the softness in her voice and the surprising extensiveness of her research. He knew some of the students for their accuracy, others for their arrogance; he knew some for their idiocy, and others for their brilliance.

It was a skill his professors had always taken great pride in praising. ‘Observant’ was what they called him—even today, with half his foot out the door and half his report unheard by anyone but his tape recorder.

The word had become barbed and poisonous over time, like a silver stake to a heart bound with ropes and blood to the moon. ‘Observant’ never meant anything good, anything positive; it meant he was anti-social and solitary, a stranger to the world, a foreigner. It meant he lived on the fringes, seeing everything from the outside in, from a viewpoint just beyond the reach of anyone’s touch.

And he was still learning to live with that, because god, sometimes it fucking sucked.

Especially during times like these, when Rick was stepping out of the shower, and Daryl found himself looking up to meet his eyes. 

Rick had a towel around his neck and dark jeans pulled snug to his hips, the lingering moisture making his shirt stick to the front of his chest. His hair was damp against the back of his head, and his jaw was clean-shaven, the smell of aftershave like a kick to the side of Daryl’s nose. There was still the odd red stain on his arms and against his throat, but they slid in and out of view as Rick walked, shadows playing across his body from the rough sheen of the lights overhead.

“Thanks for waiting up,” he said, the words almost swallowed by the playback on Daryl’s tape-deck as he pulled the headphones from over his ears. “I appreciate it.”

Rick offered Daryl his hand, but it was left untouched. Daryl decided the weight of Rick’s eyes on his face was heavy enough, without the weight of his skin against his palm and the smell of his body under his fingernails.

But Rick still held out his hand, even after Daryl pulled himself to his feet. The insistence was the first thing to surprise Daryl, after Rick’s initial request that they speak after class.

Rather predictably, Rick’s handshake was firm, and his palm buzzed with warmth from the shower. It felt formal, but comfortable, like an affirmation rather than an introduction.

“Rick Grimes,” Rick said, smiling again like he had on the floor. It was bold, open, and inviting.

_Fucking hell._

“Daryl,” Daryl said, putting the slightest bit of space between them, pulling back from a touch he knew would come back to haunt him. He said his last name, whispered it like an afterthought, but it sounded stale on his tongue, tasteless, almost bitter but not quite potent enough.

Rick dropped his eyes. “We do a lot of work together,” he said, letting his now-empty hand drift up to his face, letting his fingers thread through his hair and shower water droplets across his shoulders. “Our departments talk a lot through email. But I feel like I hardly know you, right? You just sign your name at the bottom of autopsy reports, and that’s it. I don’t even see you around much.”

Keeping his face impassive, Daryl nodded. Rick didn’t know they frequented the same two coffee shops on campus maybe three times a week, and both preferred the same wing of the east library to study in. He’d forgotten the seven classes they’d shared between first and second year, and the conference they'd both attended in the middle of last summer. _They'd even shared a floor when they were both in residence._ But then again, earlier today, he hadn’t even remembered his name.

“Do you want something?” Daryl asked, shifting hisweight between his legs, moving one hand to his pocket to feel the sharp edge of his motorcycle keys between his fingers before pulling his eyes from Rick’s face. “I can’t read your mind."

Rick turned too, following Daryl’s gaze towards nothing in particular. But for a moment, just a moment, they both pretended to be looking at something special, something they both understood.

Rick was the first to break away. “Were you in Hershel’s intro lecture this morning? For his class on serial killers?”

Daryl huffed, a short, brief sound that let irritation seep from his bones without showing on his face. “Yeah, I was there. You need the notes or something?”

Rick’s hand was back behind his head, like he was considering something that almost made him feel afraid. It showed in the fingers of his other hand, which tapped against his leg; it showed in the movement of his eyes, the edge to his breathing. He was nervous.

Which made Daryl want to punch him. Nervous people made him uncomfortable. Anxious. It was a warning sign for something bad, intense, or unnecessary. It was a precursor to mistakes and stupidity and irrationality and foolishness. It was the calm before the shitstorm.

“Whatever it is—” Daryl started to say.

“Do you have a group yet?” Rick asked.

And there it was.

“What?” Daryl asked, after a beat. A single beat. A breath, a sigh, a pounding, a split second of heat and confusion and wonder and doubt.

“We need an M.E. for the year-long assignment,” Rick explained, the confidence back in his voice. He pulled the towel out from around his neck and tossed it over his shoulder, the school crest stitched into the material momentarily morphing into a skull. “You do really good work. I want you to be our man.”

Daryl could hear Merle laughing the fucking shit out of his lungs. The sound was louder than anything else in the entire room.

A small part of him wanted to say yes. A bigger part of him wanted to say no.

“Shane won’t work with me,” Daryl said instead, taking another half-step back but hiding the movement in the readjustment of his backpack on his shoulder. “And I’m shit at group projects.”

But Daryl already knew that if Rick asked him again, he’d say yes. Not because he wanted this, not because he needed a group in order to pass the assignment, not even because he had maybe the tiniest, most minuscule, most useless and dumb crush on I’m-always-team-lead Rick Grimes, but because—

Because Rick was looking at him with those big, deep, dangerous-as-the-sea, when-the-sky-meets-the-ocean-coloured eyes. With that slightly lopsided, overly-eager, stupidly-hopeful look on his face like the one proud hunting dogs have just before they take off into the darkest part of the woods. Because Rick Grimes could ask him anything, even to drive him home on the first night they'd ever met, when they were less than strangers, less than names, less than faces that flashed past in dreams and smells that lingered in empty washing machines. Because Rick Grimes was the worst weak spot Daryl Dixon had ever had, and he didn’t even know why.

“Let me deal with Shane,” Rick said. Then, like an arrogant prick, he pulled a sharpie out of his bag and wrote his phone number on Daryl’s arm. “Call me about it, okay? Or I’ll call you. Here.”

And he held out his arm, straight and true, until Daryl, beyond his own understanding, wrote ten little black numbers, all in a line, across Rick's skin.


	4. Chapter 4

Rick could hear the thrum of the car stereo through the asphalt, like a heartbeat trapped under the tips of his fingers. It was a strong sound, steady and bold, broken only by the heavy stillness between songs, a moment which stretched from one second to two, dragging on the earth like pressure from the atmosphere.

Rick recognized the CD as one of Shane’s, but couldn’t guess the track number; he had a good ear for the rhythm of a bassline, but remembering lyrics had never been his strong-suit. He tried to listen, but by then Shane had turned down the music, letting the dark sunglasses over his eyes slide down the bridge of his nose.

He was leaning out of the driver’s side door, one hand on the steering wheel and the other out the window, his cellphone hanging off the edge of his palm. He whistled softly, the sound sharp but impressed; it carried even halfway across the parking lot, and stuck, with precision, to the inside of Rick’s arm, like a layer of oil or a layer of dust. It made Rick feel oddly self-conscious.

“I left you alone for _fifteen_ minutes,” Shane said, stepping up and out of the car. He grabbed Rick on the shoulder, the laughter in his voice pulling on the edge of his face. “You crazy son-of-a-bitch. Tell me about her—blond? Brunette? Pretty eyes? Nice ass?”

“You know I wouldn’t do that to Lori,” Rick replied, keeping himself from meeting Shane’s gaze. He slipped from his best friend’s touch and walked around the car to the passenger side door, but found it locked.

When Rick looked up, there was something dark around Shane’s mouth, something large and hollow that cast his features in a bad light. “Be serious, man,” Shane said. “I mean, if it’s a guy, that’s okay, we don’t need to talk about that stuff, and I’m sure—”

“You gonna unlock the car?” Rick asked, interrupting him. “And don’t go shooting yourself. It’s Daryl’s.”

The relief on Shane’s face twisted something in Rick’s stomach, something the size of a large stone that burned a ghastly, sickly light against his bones. But the small, open-mouthed smile on Shane’s face—the drop of his shoulders, the lack of tension in his hands—soon disappeared, replaced by confusion that painted black jagged lines over his forehead.

“ _Dixon?_ Come on man, you didn’t waste my time out here for _that_.”

Rick leaned forward over the hood of the car, bracing his body on his arms. Beneath him, the suspension seemed to hiss, shifting under his weight; the sound was louder than this heartbeat, which he stilled with half a thought. He didn’t want to feel panic, so he didn’t; he concentrated on nonchalance, understanding, patience, and surety.

“We needed an M.E. for Hershel’s group assignment,” Rick explained, “so I asked him. Didn’t want to lose him to someone else.”

Shane reacted immediately, doing nothing to hide his anger. “So you asked the fucking _redneck?_ Rick, that’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.” He pulled his sunglasses off his face and tossed them onto the dashboard, the corner of the frame hitting the windshield with a faint _click_. “You have any idea how unreliable he is? Come on man, we’ve slaved for two years and you want to throw that away for a fucking _Dixon?_ ”

Rick stepped back, one hand on his hip, like a man reaching for the holster that held his gun. He trusted Shane, but something about his tone set him on edge, like a matchbook held too close to a can of gasoline. He was used to butting heads with his best friend—hell, sometimes it was the only way they could get anything done. But this felt wrong, unprecedented, maybe; rage for rage’s sake.

And maybe Shane saw that realization dawn on Rick’s face, the pull of his lips, the stress at the edges of his eyes. Maybe Shane could see Rick's defensiveness in the way he'd stepped back, or in the seriousness that had come over his brow. Either way, he sighed and hung his head, the hard lines of his jaw softening to something almost recognizable again, less rough and animalistic.

“Look man, I trust your gut, you know that,” Shane said, his voice quieter now than it had been before, almost sympathetic, almost embarrassed. “But we can’t work with a Dixon, and Andrea will back me up on that. Maybe Glenn will too. You’re jeopardizing all our grades on a loose cannon, and I can’t let you do that.”

Shane’s resistance made Rick feel uneasy, but he understood his prejudice. Being a Dixon carried hash connotations in most circles, and ‘potential’ alone would not be enough to sell Daryl to his friends. Rick could accept that, but he didn’t have to like it.

“What am I supposed to tell him then?” Rick asked, not relenting, but allowing room for negotiation. “What am I supposed to say—it was all a mistake?” He turned his eyes towards the school, looking at the dark windows mixed between the ones glowing with light and movement, bodies passing back and forth as machines cast spots of coloured light on the glass.

“I don’t really care what you tell him,” Shane said, stepping back from the car and dragging the heel of his left shoe across the asphalt. “Make me the bad guy, if you want. Tell him I hate his guts. Whatever works.”

Rick frowned, the hard line of his mouth set deeper, behind his skull, like a mental note imprinted on the back of his eyes. “I still think we’d be idiots to pass him up. He does better work than I’ve seen in a long time. He takes this real seriously—name one other M.E. student who does that.”

Shane scowled and spat onto the ground, rubbing his knuckles along his bottom lip. “Just get in the car, man,” he said, clicking the button on the door that unlocked Rick’s side. “Did he grab your fucking dick while you were down on the ground today? What’s gotten into you?”

But when Shane closed the driver’s side door, Rick was still standing outside the car, his hand back to where a holster might have been, the smell of gunpowder under his nails. “Drive yourself home, Shane,” Rick said, keeping his voice level but his eyes on the hood of the car. He had more to say, but swallowed it back and turned towards the street.

He’d made it all of two blocks before Shane pulled the car onto the road beside him, honking repeatedly. Rick didn’t slow, didn’t turn, just walked, hating the sting he felt between his ribs, of something in Shane that had always disagreed with him despite everything they were to each other.

Shane rolled down the window as he leaned over the front seat divider, half an eye on the road and half on Rick. “Hey, look, I might have fucked up back there, okay? Will you get in the car?”

Rick let his right hand clench into a fist, imagining the fury building under his palm before slipping out between his fingers as he relaxed his grip. Walking towards the curb, he put his other hand partially through the window and let it rest against the rubber buffer.

“We have to compromise on this,” Rick said. “I have a good feeling about him, about what he can do. If you want me to trust you, you have to give a little.”

It sounded reasonable, but Rick could see the resistance in Shane’s jaw, the harsh grip of his hand on the steering wheel. “We could go with your second choice, whoever it is,” Shane said. “Doesn’t matter—you can pick anyone else, and I’ll agree, no questions asked.”

Rick moved his hand, opening the car door just enough to get in. “And if my second choice is still Daryl?”

Shane leaned back against his seat, clearly exasperated. “Throw me a bone here, Rick. Compromise isn’t about you always bein’ right.”

Rick hesitated, watching the door pull shut against his right side, following his seat-belt as it moved across his chest. It bought him a moment to think.

“Give me till the trial,” he said suddenly. “The one for my murder, in three weeks. Daryl fucks up, we can ask Sasha; no one’ll even think to start looking for a group till October anyway. But if I’m right, about Daryl, you’ll shut up about it.”

Shane turned his head, letting the evening light slant over his face through the windshield. His shoulders betrayed his tension, but his knuckles loosened around the steering wheel, and the lines between his eyes slipped away.

“Three weeks,” he said, “but this isn’t some episode of fucking _Survivor_. The only one who’s voting him off the damn island is me.”

Rick wouldn’t meet his eyes. “He’s gonna prove you wrong,” he said, oddly confident, oddly hopeful.

Shane snorted. “Yeah, we’ll see.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been getting so many lovely comments on these first few chapters; thank you all so much <3

Daryl waited four days for Rick to call, and in the end, felt like a fool. 

Explaining that to Carol, however, took everything out of him that he’d been protecting and salvaging for the past few days. Even rolling up his sleeve felt like a betrayal, like being thrown, naked and beaten, onto the plank of a ship, over waves the colour of coal. Only for her was he willing to try, willing to put words to the pain that he felt, even as she reached out to stop him, her smile sympathetic and gentle.

But Daryl wasn’t ready for her thoughts, or her advice; he wasn’t finished trying to understand his own feelings yet, of hope more tender and fragile than he’d ever experienced before. There had just been so much honesty in Rick’s face, so much awe in his voice, and his compliments had hit Daryl _hard_ , settling deep against his bones. _I want you to be our man _, he’d said. Daryl hated himself for being so easily taken in.__

__So he kept talking, even when Carol was called away by other customers in the restaurant, even when she passed him with cups of coffee in her hands or trays of food stacked against her arms. He talked until everything stopped making sense, stopped making headway, and he was left alone with his hands and his thoughts, his eyes on the window, on the river that passed between the road and the university, on the sky that crashed into the horizon as the early morning light filtered in along the twisting, shadowy roads. He talked until he ran out of anything to say._ _

__Not wanting to push him, Carol let him brood over his morning eggs and bacon, refilling his coffee and replacing his toast when he seemed to run out of things to fidget with between his hands. Daryl was thankful, but could manage nothing from his throat besides a slow, halfhearted swallow, enough to taste the salt on his food and the caffeine in his coffee, but little else._ _

__Eventually, when the crowd from the morning wandered off to fill the streets, Carol found the time to sit beside Daryl at the breakfast bar, pretending to wipe away the nonexistent crumbs and grime on the counter with an off-white cloth. Her hair had been newly cut; Daryl could see the slight tinge of pink against the back of her neck, where the razor had buzzed her hair almost to the scalp. But otherwise, she looked the same as she always did: slightly too tired, with sadness pulling on the edge of her lips—like a tree beaten by the wind a little too long, only to enjoy the taste of summer as it transitioned slowly to fall._ _

__Feeling Daryl’s eyes on her face, Carol lifted her gaze to meet his, her hands moving close enough to touch his arm if he let her stray another inch, another breath. And he did, with a small turn of his head, her slender fingers coming against him, reassuring and warm like the sand around an oasis._ _

__“Daryl,” she said, her voice soft and unassuming. “Can I make a suggestion? Would that be all right?”_ _

__Daryl turned to her, cutting one of his hash-browns with the side of his fork. He had a sense of what she was going to say, but he nodded, and let her say it anyway._ _

__“Why don’t you call him?” She asked._ _

__He shrugged. To someone else, that might have seemed dismissive, but Carol just continued to smile, her eyes brushing past his towards the window, to give him space._ _

__“I just think you’ve cut him a little short, is all,” she said. “I still think he means to work with you.”_ _

__Daryl wanted to ask why. Instead, he swallowed back his question. “Maybe he’s changed his mind,” he said. “Doesn't matter. I work best on my own anyway.”_ _

__Then he made as if he was getting up to leave, sliding his fork onto his plate and his knife deeper into his untouched home fries, the yoke from his egg running through the oil from his bacon. But he wasn’t really, and Carol knew to stop him, to touch his shoulder and ease him back against the bar-stool, against the worn, cracked leather that almost recognized his impression._ _

__She said his name again, and this time, he turned to her, her light, sky-blue eyes reaching out and through him, as comforting as a promise. “I know it’s always been hard for you to have faith in people,” she said, “but some people are worth the chance.” She touched his hand, her grip belying the delicacy of her face, her grip as serious as her eyes were gentle. “The good ones always surprise you.”_ _

__And then she was gone, pulling away, on her feet again with a notepad in her hand and a menu under her arm. “Just call him,” she said, her voice drifting around him as she walked towards the front of the restaurant. “If he’s changed his mind, you deserve better anyway.”_ _

__Coming from Carol, from the wisdom she hid behind her eyes, it all sounded so simple. Even Daryl could see that, with his hand already at the hem of his sleeve, his skin warm under his fingertips. Either way, he deserved to know._ _

__So he called the number from memory, and the line rang slowly, shaking through the air, hanging like Carol’s words around his head. He held his breath, to still his pulse, then dropped his eyes to the counter, to the cracked laminate and the fingerprints and the crumbs around his plate._ _

__Then Rick picked up._ _

__“Hello?”_ _

__Daryl clenched the fingers of his left hand. Leaned back on his seat. “Rick?”_ _

There was a pause, so brief and delicate it all but shattered. “ _Daryl_ ,” Rick breathed, his voice broken with relief. “I’m so glad you called." 

__His response caught Daryl off-guard, and the silence sharpened the background noise on both ends of the line. The chatter, the scuff of shoes on linoleum, the drag of chairs across hardwood. It broke like waves against the shore, close, before retreating._ _

__“Sorry for the noise,” Rick said. There was a shuffling sound, and Daryl imagined him ducking out of class, trying to find someplace quieter they could talk. “How are you?” He asked, a door swinging shut behind him. “You doing okay?”_ _

__Daryl closed his eyes. “Just working,” he said. “I was just calling to ask—did you talk to Shane?”_ _

__Rick hesitated, just as more noise filled the line, almost drowning him out. “Sorry, god, it’s loud around here,” Rick said, almost sheepish, almost disbelieving. “But yeah, yeah, I talked to Shane. He’s just made things a little complicated.”_ _

__Daryl spoke immediately, like a reaction, like he’d known this was coming, like he’d expected it. “I don’t—”_ _

__But Rick interrupted him. “No, wait, Daryl.” His voice was hurried, nearly frantic. But then the sound was gone, replaced by something powerful, something strong and confident and reassured. “Look, what I said before—I still think we’d make a great team. It’s really just a question of whether or not you’re really okay working with me. With Shane. With Andrea.”_ _

__Daryl wasn’t sure what to say to that. Not at first. But the answer came to him, and he weighed his words carefully, knowing he meant them, but not trusting himself to say anything more._ _

__“I could do it,” he said._ _

__Rick smiled on the other end of the line, bright like a star, brilliant and bold. Daryl could hear it in every word he spoke. “Then will you hear me out?” He asked._ _

__Daryl said he would, agreeing faster than he’d backed down, faster than the words could form on his tongue._ _

__And Rick laughed, a wonderful, happy kind of sound, like he was out of breath, like he was leaning his head against a wall with his ribs full of light. “I can’t talk now, but…let me buy you lunch? My class ends at 11.”_ _

__Daryl looked at the clock behind the counter of the restaurant, noting the time. It was all he allowed himself to think about. “Can you make 11:30? I know a place.”_ _

__“I have a car, I can be anywhere you need,” Rick said._ _

__Daryl gave the address. “It’s an all-day breakfast place,” he said, “You’ve been?”_ _

__Rick laughed again, a nervous sound now, trembling and fragile. “Always meant to,” he replied. “I have to get back to class, but, I’ll see you soon?”_ _

__“Yeah,” Daryl said. And then he said goodbye, but he couldn’t remember for sure._ _

__He couldn’t remember much of anything._ _


	6. Chapter 6

Despite pulling into the parking lot fifteen minutes early, Rick spotted Daryl through the window at the front of the restaurant, sitting with his back to the glass and his knees against the edge of the table. Cast in grey steel from the late morning light, the wings on the back of his black leather jacket hanging down from his shoulder-blades, he seemed preoccupied, maybe with something in his hands; from the driver’s side seat in his car, Rick couldn’t be sure.

Outside, under his feet, the gravel of the parking lot crunched like dry cereal, passing clouds painting the stones in a gloomy colour that mimicked falling rain. He knew the area only in passing, and the ravine behind the restaurant grew right into the parking lot, roots reaching under the parked cars with vines tangled around what remained of a rusting chain-link fence. From the creak, Rick could hear only a faint twinkling, like starlight off a windowpane; to his right, the river between the road and the university hummed with life, the shore shaped by the powerful current.

Pushing open the door to the restaurant introduced him to the sharp, overwhelming smell of breakfast, but of the patrons inside, only one turned to meet his eyes. Immediately, Daryl shifted his position, moving his legs to the floor; on the table, he put down his pencil and red-tipped marker, a collection of crime scene photos and loose leaf spread out in a semi-circle. Two menus had already been placed beside the cutlery, but both sets were stacked neatly near the window, empty plates supporting them both.

Rick took the seat closer to the door, draping his light coat over the back of the booth. Underneath, he wore a brown button-up, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, baring what remained of Daryl’s bold black numbers on his arm.

“You look like you’ve been here awhile,” Rick said, glancing over the red circles, arrows, and lines that dotted most of the full-colour photographs. “If I’d known, I could have come earlier—”

But Daryl was watching him now, his eyes heavy on Rick’s face. There was an apology there, an interruption, and the depth of his gaze make Rick stutter.

So instead, Rick simply offered to help Daryl stack his papers and re-order his photos, a task which between them took only a few minutes. As Rick’s hands passed over the frozen images of his own bloodied body, however, he noticed one with a string of question marks and triangles, lying near the center of the table.

“Find something interesting?” Rick asked, gesturing to the photograph. A shiny number ‘18’ had been penned in the corner.

Daryl glanced at it. “I’m not sure yet,” he said, “but, I think the second knife might actually have been a saw blade.” He hesitated, eyes searching for something else on the table, something else that was apparently no longer there. He shrugged. “It’s hard to say, since you weren’t a real body. I can’t cut down to the bone to be sure.”

Rick found the assessment unnerving, even knowing the crime had been staged. “Can I tell Shane and Andrea about it?” He asked.

Daryl shrugged, sliding the photo into place with the rest. “It’s just a hunch.”

With his work safely back in his bag, Daryl rearranged the table, handing Rick one of the laminated menus. It was sticky to the touch, likely from the oil of a few hundred fingerprints; inside, each item was listed in bold print, with a tiny description underneath themed after the name of the restaurant.

At the reminder, Rick raised his head. “Do you know why they picked ‘The Speakeasy’, by the way?” He glanced around the room for effect, gesturing to the fake bullet holes in the walls, the various newspaper clippings about Al Capone, and the 1920s style artwork over the counter. “I’ve always wondered.”

Daryl met his eyes as he put down his menu, the pages unopened and unread. He seemed to weigh his answer in his mind, searching for a truth he believed, or a truth he most agreed with. But before he could answer, a woman in a small white apron walked up to their booth, her short, dark hair almost grey in the sunlight despite the youth in her face.

“Can I start you off with something to drink?” She asked, her eyes moving quickly from Daryl to settle on Rick, appraising him carefully. “A coffee, some tea?”

“A coffee would be great,” Rick said.

The waitress smiled. “Daryl?” She asked, turning to him. “More coffee?”

But as Daryl turned to answer her, Rick saw something come over his face, a softness to the hard lines around his mouth. A heartbeat later, he returned her smile, and when he said her name to thank her, there was genuine appreciation there, kindness, even compassion. It gave Rick pause, even as he watched Daryl ghost his fingers quickly over the back of her hand, her fingers—in that same moment—brushing against the edge of the table.

To think of Daryl in love was an odd thing for Rick, in light of how little else he knew about him. In truth, he could count on his left hand what he knew about Daryl, and most of that was apparent even now: the caution built like gunpowder into his hardened, lone wolf demeanour, his unerring sense of patience, his heightened work ethic. And he was quiet, almost unbelievably so, in a way that let him slip into the upholstery like a shadow, moving with only the slightest of impressions left on the earth. 

Thinking back on that now, as Rick looked across the table at Daryl’s face, he was reminded suddenly of moments when they’d interacted before, passing in the library, standing behind each other in line at a coffee shop. They had been brief, moments lost without eye contact, made without connection, but the memory lingered, like thin ice over a deep pool of dark, churning water.

The realization distracted him, enough that he missed Carol’s next question, only for Daryl to answer for him as she walked away.

“Sorry,” Rick said quickly, drawing his arms back from the table, his hands moving again to the menu. “I was just thinking about what you said, about the saw blade.”

If Daryl suspected Rick was lying, he shrugged it off, the gesture noncommittal, almost inattentive. His eyes were on the window, over the parking lot. “What exactly did Shane say?” He asked, slowly turning back.

Rick lowered the edge of his menu, so he could study Daryl’s face. “He doesn’t know much about you,” he replied.

Daryl waited a heartbeat to respond. “Neither do you,” he pointed out.

“But I feel like I could,” Rick said. “Maybe I’m jumping the gun, but you were thorough as a team lead, serious, professional. I like working with people like that.”

Daryl folded his arms, something heavy and dark racing along his jaw. “I bet Shane had a different opinion,” he said.

“But Shane isn’t always right,” Rick countered, careful now. “And I talked to him. He’s willing to work with you till the trial, coming up in a few weeks. He says if he likes your work, he’ll give you a shot.”

Daryl snorted, seemingly unconvinced, and bitterness leaked into the edge of his voice. It was surprisingly raw, and for a moment, almost uncontained. “So I’m supposed to jump through hoops for him?” He asked. “Like an animal?”

Rick tried not to flinch “He’s my best friend. I know he can be stubborn, but he’s a good guy. He just needs time to adjust.”

At that, Daryl seemed to agree. So his gaze became measured again, taking something in from Rick’s face; on the receiving end of the appraisal, Rick held steady, his opinion firm.

“I can’t promise anything,” Daryl said at last, his expression betraying a sudden realization. His arms came undone, and he leaned back against his seat. “I don’t know why you think so highly of—”

But he was interrupted again, Carol returning just then with two steaming cups of coffee. “Sorry for the wait,” she said, placing them down beside each other on the table, nudging a packet of sugar out of place. She drew her pencil from her apron, looking slightly flustered. “Know what you’d like?”

Daryl looked to Rick, unruffled, and gestured to him with a slight tilt of his chin.

Rick made up his mind on the spot. “Just an omelette, please. Cheese, green peppers, tomatoes.”

But as Carol nodded, turning to Daryl, Rick spoke again, remembering something Lori had asked for, just before he’d pulled away from campus. “Sorry, can I also get a breakfast wrap to go? It’s just for my girlfriend.”

And it took a moment, for Rick to see the change in Daryl’s face, subtle and muffled. A flash, a split second; a stillness, pressing down against his throat.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Head's up: Lori and Shane sleep together in this one. I guess this is also a warning for the fic in general--as much as I love Rick/Daryl, I really wanted to do justice to the complexities of Rick/Lori and Lori/Shane. If it would help in the future, I can definitely let everyone know ahead of time which chapters have f/m sex in them!

The grass was soft with dew under Lori’s back, cool to the touch like wind off the river. Against her skin, it was almost like silk, gentle and silver; against her cheek, it was comforting, the smell a mix of earth and leaves and pine and bark. 

It was a sharp contrast to the weight against her body, the sensation hot and electric. A sharp contrast to the thrum of movement over her clothes, the rustling of her shirt, the sound of the zipper on her jeans. A sharp contrast to the pressure building inside her veins, dull, but dangerous, like an oncoming storm.

As much as she was enjoying herself, Lori dreaded someone finding her here, her hair tangled in the roots of nearby trees, her voice lost to the rush of the river, her hands held above her head. She hated the idea of having to cover herself, having to push free of the man working between her legs, his hands on her ribs, his lips on her throat. But she couldn’t contain the words when they pressed up against her tongue, involuntary as the shivers that wracked her body, the sound more of a breath, an escape, a sigh, a moan.

“Fuck, Shane,” she whispered, her hands moving over his back and into his hair, pulling him closer, loving the touch of his chest against her, loving the pressure, the closeness. He moved his fingers along the inside of her thighs, almost in response, desperate for more, but Lori’s words became a cry, muffled and hoarse.

With both of her hands eager and searching, Lori reached for the hem of Shane’s shirt, pulling at the material, sliding it up his back and over his shoulders so it bunched around his neck.

“A little eager today, are we?” Shane sat back, careful to keep his weight on his knees and off of Lori’s hips. His voice was thick, impatient, even, but he laughed at her, his shirt coming away in his hands and landing in a pile of leaves.

Lori’s dark eyes followed the movement, along his chest, his shoulders, his arms, and his face. She loved the sight of him, bare to the waist, his jeans undone, his belt slack; it was like a promise of what was to come.

His lips found hers again, his hands on her blouse, the buttons coming away one by one. Then his fingers were under the edge of her bra, tracing the impression left on her skin.

He was rougher with her now, an arm around her back, pulling her up, his hands pushing away her clothes, her shirt, the clasp of her bra, the top of her jeans. He let her help him out of his boxers, but then pinned her wrists between his thumb and forefinger, tearing at her lace underwear like it was in the way, inexcusable and unexpected. It was thrilling, the haste, the fumbling, the sloppy kisses, the dirty talk; Lori struggled against his grip, wishing he would hold her tighter.

Between her legs, he was hot against her, the touch of his skin absolutely electric. He was trembling with anticipation, using his hand to drag himself across her thigh, the stickiness familiar and warm, like the sweat on the back of her legs, beads trailing slowly down her skin to her ankles.

“God I want you so bad,” he said, leaning forward so he could press her into the ground, his voice loud in her ears, his face buried in her hair. He bit her earlobe, lightly, teasing, teeth grazing her skin, her moans muffled by his shoulder.

And then he was there, shifting against her, the tip of him toying with her before quickly pulling away.

Shane sat up on his calves, the cold crashing in on Lori’s chest, making her skin ripple with goosebumps, her arms jerk across her body. She felt exposed without him there, lonely and needy; it felt like an eternity, waiting for the smell of latex and the sound of a plastic wrapper coming apart in his hands.

Shane came back to her as quickly as he had pulled away, his hands on her chest, rough and eager, his lips pressing down against her everywhere—along the ridge between her ribs, along her collarbone, along her throat.

And his hands were just as busy, one in her hair, pulling her head back, exposing her to him and forcing her eyes into the trees. The other was between her legs, circling her, moving against her skin in places that made her jerk beneath him, her cries almost painful.

“Don’t tease me Shane,” she whispered, her voice pitching outside her control, growing louder and quieter like waves against the rocks.

He laughed, the sound husky, almost predatory. “You know you love it,” he said, moving his hand away from her, from between her legs to between his own. He guided himself back to her, pressing in, pushing, hasty.

Lori felt the tip of him slide against her, then push inside, hard and fast. He was never patient enough with her, and feeling him there was always a shock, not painful, but sudden, intrusive. Then he was sinking inside her, disappearing in half a heartbeat, her back arching under his hands, her words a sharp cry.

She could feel every inch of him, hyper-aware of the way she stretched around him, the muscles retracting and giving way only slowly, only grudgingly. Her nails had been cut almost to the quick, but she dug into him anyway, wanting to feel grounded somehow, wanting to hold him closer.

Above her, Shane was groaning between his thrusts, a quick slap of his hips, his strokes long and deep. He followed a rhythm she could almost hear, his breathing like a drum keeping time with an orchestra. He swore quietly into her hair, moaning her name.

Lori faked an orgasm after that, letting her body move just like she’d rehearsed, jerking under Shane’s chest, scratching his back, crying out. She knew it always turned him on, seeing her undone, believing in her moment of ecstasy—it tipped him over the edge, and he always finished not long after she appeared to.

When the moment passed, Shane pulled out, his clean-up quick and efficient. But he was affectionate afterwards, playing with her hair as she struggled with her clothes, teasing her about the pain between her legs, bragging about it to no one. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, then pulled back, giving her space.

“You really should reconsider,” he said, brushing dirt from the front of his jeans. “I know what you like; I could really look out for you.”

Lori tried not to wince as she bent over to retrieve her bra, the lace tangled with leaves and twigs. “I’m not leaving what I have with Rick,” she said, her eyes on the ground, her back to Shane as she pulled on her shirt. “This has been fun, but I know him—he’ll ask to be serious, and when he does, you know what my answer will be.”

Shane mumbled something, quick, under his breath, before reaching out to pull her into his arms, her back against his chest. “You haven’t even slept with him yet. What if you don’t like the motorcycle he drives? You’re already so comfortable with the engine on mine…”

Lori turned, pulling away from Shane with a short half-step. “He's just waiting till I start the pill. I’ll talk him out of that eventually.”

The rest of her rebuttal died in her throat. She didn’t want to talk about Rick with Shane, the gentle way he touched her, the soothing way he moved over her body, careful of her skin, responsive to her every breath. She had something real with Rick, something more important to her than the fun she was having with his best friend.

Sensing that, Shane dropped his hands, hiding them in his pockets. “You’ll change your mind,” he said, the edge of a warning in his cocky little smile. “I know you. You will.”

Lori stared him down, hating the draw she felt to his body as much as she loved it.

“Shut up Shane,” she said, suddenly walking past him, out of the forest and towards the university’s main parking lot. “Rick will be back any minute, and we can’t be late for class.”

So Shane kept pace beside her, close enough to touch her shoulder but holding back, out of respect for the challenge she’d put before him. When she was distracted, he slid a leaf into her back pocket, knowing she liked the feeling of his fingers against her body and the scratch of their secret against her skin. Because in truth, he had come to like it too, and he wasn’t ready to give it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my first attempts at writing sex; I hope it doesn't read as too amateurish. Should I be more explicit in the future? Or is the level of detail not really important?
> 
> Edit: It seems the f/m sex in this chapter has been badly received? I didn't mean to upset anyone, and I'm really sorry if I've made anyone uncomfortable. I had always intended for this fic to include both f/m and m/m sex, so, if that's not your cup of tea, I'm going to start including little summaries at the bottom of chapters with f/m sex so those who'd rather not read it can skip it entirely.


	8. Chapter 8

Daryl hadn't expected to hear from Rick again until the following week, when class—mandatory and unavoidable—pushed them back together, their tentative friendship divided by the words printed in bold on the front of their jackets. But Rick surprised him after class, his shoes scuffing on the hallway linoleum, his hair still damp from the afternoon rain, his shirt still clinging to the front of his chest.

"You should've sat up front with us," he said, reaching out to lightly punch Daryl’s arm, friendly and oddly affectionate. "Hershel’s always picking on the people in the back. Like he wants to make sure they’re listening, you know?"

Daryl nodded, but the gesture was noncommittal. He’d been taking classes with Hershel for two years, and even knowing the old man’s habits, Daryl couldn’t imagine himself finding a seat in the second row, sandwiched between Shane and Lori and Andrea and Rick, the gravity of one presence pulling in the gravity of everyone else's, swallowing them all like a black hole. It would be unsettling, staring at the PowerPoint from only a few feet away, the rest of classroom lost somewhere behind him, the sound echoing under his feet. He preferred the back row, with his shoulders against the wall and his hands along the baseboards. He liked the seats there, worn and weathered; he liked the cracked plaster and the hush of the corner space, the press of the sloped ceiling close to his head. He liked the vantage point over the crowd, the threading of the rows just out of reach of his hands. He liked the privacy, even if it was only relative.

"Maybe next week," Daryl said, keeping his eyes away from Rick's face, away from the ocean of colour that pulled him in, like the tide, like the current, like the draw of weight against his legs. "I'll see you around, I guess.”

But Rick caught his shoulder as he turned to go, the strap of his bag cutting against his skin in exactly the same place, the weight of his books doubled by the extra paperwork and photographs he’d carried with him over lunch. There was something about Rick’s touch; it was insistent, like a bloodhound or a hunting dog, like a torpedo or a homing beacon that flared red and hot against the sky. Maybe he sensed that something was wrong, that something had snaked under Daryl’s skin like a poison, spiking his PH levels. Or maybe worry came naturally to him, his eyes drawn to the pulls around someone’s face, the quake of their hands, and the sweat on their palms.

In truth, Daryl was forcing himself not to care, but after seeing Lori fold into Rick's arms, her lips against his cheek and her hands in his hair, it was hard for him to concentrate, the image pulling on his mind in places that made him strikingly disquiet. And as time went on, the emotion only served to annoy him, his initial reaction softened by the disappointment now settling in against his bones. 

He had only ever known Rick in passing, a figure across a room, a pair of eyes that lingered in his mind and a touch that haunted his hands. He shouldn't have been surprised Rick’s interest in him went no further than a spiral-bound notebook; that his smiles were meant for teammates and collaborators—people of use, people with potential. Daryl should have _known_ , but he'd let himself get distracted, first by the genuine kindness in Rick's voice, then by the way Rick's eyes had moved over his body when rain had made his clothing stick to his skin. 

He'd suffered from a moment of weakness, and there was no going back from that.

Still, Daryl had planned to retreat to the morgue, to the stillness he would find beneath the harsh, fluorescent lighting, to the quiet he'd find pinned between the locked steel doors. He would lose himself in his work, prioritizing the puzzle of Rick's murder rather than his own confusion. It wasn’t important, trying to understand the way Rick spoke to him or the things he’d said or the weight of his hands or the touch of his lips. Lori could have all of that; she deserved it.

It was a thought process that showed on his face; Daryl could feel it, colouring the tips of his cheekbones. Still, he knew he needed Rick, even if that meant keeping his distance, even if that meant working with Shane, with strangers he didn’t know and didn’t trust, with students he couldn’t bare the sight of, with a girl that twisted something inside him that he hated to know was there. He needed Rick because the assignment due at the end of year would determine his placements over the summer, the scholarships he could earn and the work he could publish. He needed a group for that, a team lead he could trust, an investigator that would listen to him—and he had that, in Rick. He had everything.

That made Daryl very aware that a friendship with Rick was the best of both worlds. It would protect him, promote him, encourage him, support him. It would mean spending hours with someone he genuinely admired, someone whose work he respected and intelligence he never questioned. It would mean having a team. It would mean he'd be wanted somewhere.

And that would be enough—Daryl convinced himself of that. Coaxed himself into nodding his head, agreeing with the conclusion put before him, accepting it as the truth. It was easier that way, and in time, it would ease the stinging around that corner of his heart, where he could still see Lori with her lips against Rick's, her long, dark hair tangled in his hands, her tiny waist and slender body fitting against him like they were made to be together.

And while Daryl waited for that, for the memory to fade from his mind, he kept his swearing quiet and jagged, the words forcing all the animosity out of his bones, like a dragon burning out the light at the back of its throat.

“You need something Rick?” Daryl asked, the tension broken at last, the stiffness in his shoulders easing away through sheer force of will. “We can talk about the case later, if you want.”

Rick dropped his hand. “You busy? Somewhere to be?”

Daryl wanted to say yes, but he let the open notebook in his hands do the explaining, the photos clipped to the pages streaked with marker and post-it notes. “I’m just heading to the lab. Probably be there late.”

Rick cocked his head in response, his eyes pressing against Daryl's skin, heavy on his face and on his neck. Over his shoulder, Daryl could see Rick’s friends waiting, Shane talking to Lori in a low voice, Andrea fiddling with something on her phone. "I said I'd drive you home,” Rick reminded him, “whenever you're ready. Just let me know."

Daryl took a step back. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded gruff. "And I said I could walk. Rain never killed anyone."

“Didn’t say it would,” Rick replied, leaning back against the wall, his shoulders against the brick that framed the hallway, his arms across his chest. “But you let me drive you here, and your bike’s back at the restaurant. That was my call, and it’s a long way back.”

Daryl closed his eyes, letting his thoughts solidify in the dark. He wasn’t annoyed, but he hadn’t expected Rick to push him so much in one afternoon. “We still needed to talk,” Daryl allowed, relenting on a technicality. “Now I’m just holding you up.”

Rick shook his head. "If you're still working, I can drive Shane and Lori home, then come back for you. It's really no trouble." He straightened up, pulling away from the wall, serious now, his hands dropping against his waist. "Plus, I owe you for lunch. You really shouldn't have paid."

"I had a running tab anyway," Daryl lied, knowing Rick had seen him tip Carol twice the price of their bill, paying with cash he'd already counted out from his wallet. "Don't worry about it."

But Rick had already worried, enough to find Daryl after class in a mess of moving students, enough to hurry from his seat in the second row, to drag his friends along behind him, to make them wait. Enough to touch Daryl’s arm, and press his fingers against his shoulder. Enough to say Daryl’s name, just once, soft and pleading, while hardly moving his mouth.

Daryl cleared his throat.

“Can you be back in an hour?” He asked, his eyes on anything but Rick’s face. “That alright?”

And without looking up, Daryl knew his response had made Rick smile—which, of course, made his stomach kick itself in the balls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a little personal note. To everyone who commented on the last chapter, telling me that you've enjoyed my story and support what I've written—I wish I had more to say then 'thank you'. You made me tear up repeatedly, and I cannot put into words how deeply moved I was by the support of everyone who came to my defense. I will always try to respect people's boundaries, and I'm so sorry if I made anyone uncomfortable. But for those who stood up for me, stood up for my work, and for those who have decided to stick with me and my story, I want you to know that it honestly means the world. Thank you <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! This chapter was super mean to me, plus I graduated from university this week :)

Rick wasn’t sure where Daryl’s name had come from, where the whisper had formed on his tongue and the need in his throat; he wasn’t sure when he had started to look for him, his fingers searching for the heat of his skin, his eyes the press of his chest, his palms the shape of his shoulders. He couldn’t be sure where the feelings had come from, or even when, exactly, he had started to feel anything at all.

But suddenly, all at once, he was aware of it, aware of his attraction to the depth of Daryl’s eyes, the shape of his jaw, the arch of his back, and the curves of his arms. It was an alarming realization to draw in a hurrying crowd, with the thrum of chatter filling his head and the roughness of movement all around him, the energy loud and chaotic. Still, it called to him, the feeling gentle and worn like a stone by the ocean, so small it seemed to disappear in the blinding light of the afternoon, swallowed by the impatience of his friends, the faint redness in Daryl’s face, and the tremble of his own voice. It was like he had hesitated for just a moment, too surprised to move, and all but the shadows were gone.

That left Daryl to break the silence between them, his voice quiet and serious. “I’ll see you soon then,” he said, his eyes moving up from the floor, his posture relaxing in response to something he seemed to notice in Rick’s face. “Don’t go hurting yourself, okay?”

And then… _god_ , there were his eyes again, a light, almost baby blue, the press of them against Rick’s skin like a brush of Daryl's fingers, charged and electric.

It took Rick a moment to recover. “You too,” he managed to say, hating to watch Daryl turn away, his own smile feeling small and foolish. “Good luck with your work.”

But at the suggestion, Daryl suddenly turned back, something in his expression shifting the lines of his face. It wasn’t a sheepishness; Daryl almost didn’t look capable of something so shy, something so insecure. Instead, it was a questioning, a wonderment, a thought half-formed and half-spoken, a conclusion half-drawn and half-abandoned.

He didn’t even have to say it aloud; it was in the cast of his face, the flicker of light in the back of his eyes. He moved his hand, and his fingers ghosted along the edge of Rick’s elbow, as if to mimic the playfulness Rick had once shown him, the surprising affection for a stranger they both hardly knew.

“Do you maybe have a second?” He asked, his focus returning to the papers in his hands, the work pockmarked by marker and shorthand. “There was just something I wanted to run by you.”

Rick wasn’t sure what to do, what to say; in his chest, he could feel his heart beating against his ribs, the smell of rain still clinging to Daryl’s hair, their closeness almost pulling him apart.

But he must have said something, affirmative and confident, because Daryl was moving again, stepping closer than he’d been before, his head bent forward over the spread of his notebook, the road-map of arrows and circles stretching out across several pages like a circuit-board. 

“These really aren’t the best,” he said, gesturing to one photo in particular, a wide shot of Rick’s chest with a string of arrows drawn along his ribs. “But with what I have, I’m reconsidering the randomness of the stabbing. And I was listening—”

But he stopped there, his voice dragging out across his tongue like the arm of a cheap record player. Rick followed his eyes, but turned a moment too late to stop Shane from knocking his fist against the back of his shoulder, the jostling movement jerking his hand against Daryl’s arm.

“Careful,” Daryl said, quick and quiet, his head turning towards Rick’s ear, his breath catching against Rick’s throat. “Don’t break something.”

Rick could only think to laugh, the sound soft and husky.

Shane ignored the exchanged. “Hey, I don’t mean to break up the party,” he said, his tone cool and sharp, his arm across the back of Rick’s neck. “But come on man, don’t hold us up. I could drive Lori home and come back for the both of you; save everyone the hassle of waiting around.”

The suggestion made Rick turn his head, taking in the heated edge of Shane’s eyes, the tension radiating off his shoulders and the grip to the clench of his fist. There was something about the situation he just couldn’t read, an underlying current he just couldn’t follow; it made him nervous, like a flutter at the corner of his vision, a weakness in his legs that threatened to throw him onto the pavement.

“You really okay with that?” Rick asked him, keeping his voice measured and steady, even as he handed Shane the keys from the front pocket of his backpack.

Shane shrugged, something about his demeanour shifting under the surface of his face. “I’ve got this.”

So they left together, Shane with Lori at his side, the ends of her hair brushing the back of his hand as he guided her out of the crowd. They were a pair of dark heads for a long while, the movement of bodies swallowing them only as they turned the corner, Lori’s eyes looking back for Rick only once, her smile sweet and wanting.

It was a gesture that stayed with Rick, settling against his bones; it was well-meant, but felt poisoned and decisive, like she had seen right through him to the spark of pressure building at the base of his spine, to the trembling sensation trapped in the tips of his fingers. He knew what his feelings were like for her, the depth of his attachment, the thrill of his passion, and it was impossible for him to disregard that in favour of what he was only beginning to feel for Daryl, a presence that clouded his mind at worst, and a touch that paralyzed him at best.

But the contrast still made him feel anxious, in a decidedly underhanded kind of way. He wasn’t hurting them, either of them, but the feeling remained, a nervousness that quickly progressed from guilt to shame. He loved Lori, after all—he knew that he did, and he was just as confident of Daryl’s feelings for Carol, the very mention of her name softening the edges of his face. That left Daryl as just his friend, and only a tentative one at that; their relationship was simply destined to be no other way.

A thought so much easier to say than believe, when less than fifteen minutes later they were alone in the morgue, Rick’s fingers on the top button of his shirt, the rest of the material pulled away from his chest, his sleeves pressed tight under Daryl’s hand.

“You still okay?” He asked, and Rick wasn’t sure how he was supposed to answer that, his back on something colder than ice, his skin ringed with goosebumps, the touch of Daryl’s fingers on his ribs like an electric pulse straight to the core of him.

“I trust you,” Rick replied, the sound only half a breath, easing out of his lungs, quiet and hushed against his lips. “Just…don’t let me die in here, all right? God knows what my friends would say.”

Daryl smiled faintly at that, the gesture small and tense, just like it had been four days ago, Rick’s chest still under his hands, his skin still warm under his palms. “Don’t make this weird,” he said again, his hand resting gently over Rick’s eyes, the other popping the cap off a bright red marker. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

And just like before, he pulled his hand away before getting to work, the pressure of his touch just as light and just as sure, the glide of his hands just as confident and professional. The only real difference came from Rick, and it wasn’t even sparked by the rise and fall of his chest, bare to the waist on a steel operating table under the morgue’s harsh and unforgiving florescent lighting. Instead, it came from the faint trembling of his hands, and the sweat he could feel beading against his palms—a reaction he knew was undoubtedly in response to the undeniable tightness he felt across the front of his jeans.


	10. Chapter 10

Even in the quiet of a bathroom stall, the rush of cold water agonizing and sharp on the back of his hands, Rick was having a hard time shaking the idea of Daryl from the corners of his mind. The drag of Daryl’s fingers on his chest, the press of his breath; the thrum of Daryl’s body, the closeness of him. It was all making Rick feel lightheaded, even just to think of it, to breathe through his nose and still smell the impression of Daryl at his back, the weight of him between his legs. It made him feel heady, intoxicated, high, drunk— _fuck_ , it just made him _hard_.

So here he was, his back to the rough edge of a cold, metal wall, a toilet in front of his shoes, his belt loose around his waist. He didn’t have much time, but running the tap over his hands had done nothing, splashing water on his face even less. He was just so _sensitive_ ; even the brush of Daryl’s sleeve had nearly sent him over the edge. He needed to handle this, quickly and out of sight.

Easing himself out of his boxers took a moment of maneuvering, but already his fingers were slick and sticky, the moisture trapped against his palm. His breathing was a mess of sound and silence, sharp intakes of air through his nose hissing out between his teeth. Pushing back against his shoulders, feeling the slap of the metal against his neck, the faint knock of his head against the wall— _god_ it felt good.

But his rhythm was poor; he could feel the jolt every time his hand stilled, his fingers catching on the lip of his jeans, his fingers rubbing close and hard on the fabric of his boxers. He considered shrugging out of both, but he liked the press of his clothes, the weight of them, the sense of pressure riding up his heels. He liked the idea of doing something sloppy, something he needed to keep quiet and quick. He liked the idea of danger, the ringing of panic close to his head.

His fantasy wasn’t even complicated; for a moment, it was just the thought of having Daryl fuck him over the side of an examination table, or tussling with him over the hood of his car. He liked to imagine the things Daryl would say, remembering the sound of him over the phone, the call of his name, the shape of the letters on the back of his tongue. He wanted to know everything about that man, how far apart he’d set his feet, whether he’d groan from his throat or moan under his breath, whether he liked to fuck in the shower or with the slap of a mattress under his ass.

Briefly, Rick had considered Lori’s face, Lori’s skin under his hands and her clothes in his fist, but it wasn’t the same, not when he could still feel Daryl’s fingers under the hem of his jeans, his breath on his shoulders, his eyes on the sweep of his body. It was easier, and _fuck_ , it was better—Rick wanted that man on his knees, his hair in his hands, his lips against the base of him.

Maybe he should have felt embarrassed—he sensed that, dimly, in the back of his mind—but for now, he wanted this, the fantasy of Daryl’s tongue on his skin and his hands on his thighs. He wanted the panic from both of them under his fingernails, driving the steady pace of his hand and the tightness of his grip. Imagining Daryl was just so _easy_ , the shape of his face already at the forefront of his mind, the curve of his jaw and the muscles of his arms, the lines of his chest peeking through the taunt pull of his shirt.

He was taking too long now, he knew it. He needed something hotter, something to shove his body through to release. He pictured the slope of Daryl’s back, the slap of his ass against his hand. He liked the roughness of it, the haste, the rigid drive of his hips—he liked to imagine that Daryl liked the same, that he wanted the slick stumble of their bodies in the shower or a blowjob on the highway at 100 miles an hour.

And _that_ was something Rick had never confessed too—how he wanted to fuck in the front seat of his car, Daryl in his lap or the other way around, shoulders on the sunroof and an ass on the steering wheel. He wanted the rushing dread of being caught, the bloody slap of traffic over the trunk of the car. He wanted the awkward jostling and the sweaty palms, the hurried swing of knees together, the piston of his hips, or Daryl’s, someone on the bottom, someone on the top, fingers in his hair and lips on his throat, the sting of a hickey—

And _god_ , relief came _hard_ , like a shot in the dark, a spiking flare that burned through his hands and up his back, his lips between his teeth and the back of his wrist to muffle the sound. There was the splatter of him hitting the water, the creak of the stall against his back; there was the quick shuffle of his shoes, the last sharp exhale of his breath, and it was done.

Rick closed his eyes, feeling the bliss shoot down his arms, feeling the shock move through his legs, the sweat on his back cooling against the metal of the stall. He leaned forward on his arms, bracing his head between his elbows, every inch of him hanging still over the floor, his breathing a mess against his chest, heavy and harsh and shapeless in the dark.

Nothing had felt that good in a long time, enough to make his knees weak, his ribs ache, his wrists sore, and his bones shake. He felt like a current had passed straight through him, radiating out of his palms, stretching hard and fast across his body, rocking every muscle and tendon in his back. He relished in it, the trembling, the disorientation, the _relief_. And god, for just a moment, it felt like everything.

And then he was back to washing his hands, almost as if nothing had happened, the buzzing phone in his pocket an easy excuse, taking the call even as he walked back to the morgue, his voice carrying through the empty desks lining the walls and the chairs pushed in beneath them.

“Yeah, I can just come up and let you in; let me know when you get closer,” he said, his knuckles rapping on the glass beside the morgue’s reinforced steel door. “Unless…hang on. Yeah, just give me a second.”

Holding the receiver against his shoulder, Rick looked down into Daryl’s eyes, their piercing gaze seeing right through him and out the other side. _God_ , they were beautiful, blue like a piece of the sky, blue like the eye of the world.

Rick steadied his breathing. “Shane won’t be able to get in without a pass, right?”

Daryl nodded, absentminded, his attention already back on the room just behind him, his notes splayed out across his desk. “Can he maybe borrow Lori’s?” he asked. “It’ll get him through to the elevators, at least.”

Rick tried to concentrate past the sound of Daryl’s voice, the scratch of it against the throbbing in his crotch, waves of sensation still snaking through his body.

“That sounds good,” he said, and Shane seemed to say the same, or something close to it, close enough. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

And then Rick hung up, all at once excruciatingly aware that the one thing that existed between him and Daryl was a few inches of silence, built only from the burning, burning realization that maybe he’d crossed a line from which there was no going back.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm sorry for the small hiatus. I'd lost my way a little bit, but I hope to have another chapter up in a few days...)

Rick couldn’t remember falling asleep—couldn’t remember folding his shirt beneath his head like a pillow—but he woke up suddenly with Daryl’s jacket on his chest, the material warm and worn on the bare lines of his skin. It was an odd sensation, protective, almost comforting, the leather like the familiar press of a well-loved bed. Only, the morgue was far from the darkness of a bedroom, even basked in the amber glow of the failing light; there was nothing quiet about the space, nothing private and close. Instead, it was aggressive, loud and demanding; it was bright, and the lighting was harsh, and Shane’s voice sounded like it was coming from everywhere.

“I should just call the police,” Shane was saying, sounding exasperated, less serious than his threat but aggravated as a bear. “You look like you’ve fucking killed him. Do I want to know what the fuck is going on?”

Daryl’s voice was an eerie counterpart to the tension, a quiet sound that kept its place, steady and unmoved. “I know what I’m doing,” he said softly. “And Rick gave me permission; we’re on the same page.”

“The same _page?"_ Shane’s anger sparked like spilled gasoline on a racetrack, the tire treads of roaring engines grinding the fuel into dust. “We may share a class, _Dixon_ , but we don’t share a side. We are _not_ friends, and you need to keep your distance. We don’t need you.”

_Need you?_

Rick closed his eyes, hating the echo of those words on the ceiling, wondering, at the same time, if he’d just heard Daryl sigh, softly, under his breath. Shane’s name was all he said, after that, but it made Rick excruciatingly aware of Daryl’s breathing, the easing of his voice over his tongue, the closeness of their bodies magnified by the smell of his skin, trapped in the collar of his jacket. It wasn’t hearing Shane’s name that startled him; there was nothing pleading in the word, nothing angry or defensive. It was just…was it wrong to admit it? Wanting to hear his own name whispered like that?

Rick faked a convincing yawn; interrupting Daryl and Shane was easier than facing his thoughts. 

“Shit, Shane, keep your voice down,” Rick said, pretending to slur his words from the edge of exhaustion, his hands trailing over his eyes. “We’re all right here. Keep it together.”

But Rick looked up a moment too late; Shane was already turning away, the hard lines around his jaw growing long and haggard. Still, Daryl’s eyes found him in the space between the doorway and the examination table, shaded and dark, curious and pensive. “Rick,” he said softly, his voice as controlled as it’d been before. “You doing alright?”

Shane’s hand was a fist at his side. “Pack up your shit, man,” he said, staring out into the darkness of the forensics lab. “We’ve got places to be. I’m not a taxi.”

Rick rubbed his temple with the pad of his thumb, keeping his eyes on the pair of them as he swung his legs over the table and onto the floor, his shoes making a scuffing noise that filled the room. Shane hadn’t asked him a question, so his attention moved to Daryl, aware of the weight of the marker on his chest and the warmth of the leather across his hands.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” Rick said. “I just hope you got your pictures. I didn’t end up being much help.”

Daryl smiled, private and careful, a small pull at the side of his mouth. It had been half a whisper of movement, so Shane wouldn’t see. “I’ve got everything I need. It’ll look good for Monday.”

Rick smiled, but over Daryl's shoulder he watched as Shane’s eyes followed him as he turned away, Shane's expression seeming to harden at the sight of Daryl's back. There was half a retort in his teeth, poised and ready, but Rick waved him down as he grabbed his backpack.

“Sorry to hold you up,” he said, first to Shane, then again to Daryl. The pair of them nodded, but were slightly out of sync, the stiffness in Shane’s posture matched by the hesitation and caution in Daryl’s.

On a split second decision, as Rick pulled up his shirt, his back to Shane, he motioned quickly to Daryl with a slightly tip of his head, drawing him close to his left side. It had been an instinctual movement, a reaction to half a thought in the back of his mind. But in an instant, Daryl was there, his eyes on the table, his attention guarded but his awareness heightened like a tripwire.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” Rick asked, his words lost in an exhale of breath, his fingers on the hem of his button-up.

Daryl leaned past him, over his arms, reaching for the sleeve of his jacket. He seemed to consider a lengthier answer, but settled on something else. “Back in first year,” he said quietly, without looking up, “I’m the one who broke his nose.”

Rick flinched immediately, not meaning to, but knowing why, his hand reaching for Daryl’s arm, their two sets of faded black numbers lining up like complementary tattoos. “Why would—”

“It was him or Merle,” Daryl said, and at the edge of his voice, something heated seemed to catch fire and flare. “You’d pick your brother too.”

Rick didn’t nod—wasn’t sure if he could, with the press of Shane’s eyes so close to his face. “I would,” he said seriously. “You always fight for the people important to you.”

At that, Daryl’s defenses slowly dropped, just enough for him to laugh, a small, bitter sound that disappeared when he turned his head. It was the most that passed between them for the next little while, as Daryl locked up the morgue and flicked off the lights; Shane made sure to stay close to Rick after that, his car keys exchanging hands.

“You two whisper like old women,” he said, stepping quickly towards the elevator as Daryl trailed behind them. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Do you?” Rick asked, pressing the arrow key raised out from the wall.

Shane raised his eyebrow, leaning back against his shoulder, his hands in his pockets. “Does anyone?”


	12. Chapter 12

Daryl knew Rick’s eyes had followed him across the parking lot, like a string attached to his hand, straining against a breaking point. He’d been watching him since they’d left the morgue, with something in his face, something worried and curious and hopeful and sad, an odd mix Daryl wasn’t sure what to do with it, how to react to. Was there judgment there? He couldn’t tell; everything about Rick was so hard to read, his smile belied by the tension in his hands, his eyes the weight of his shoulders. Was it confusion? Daryl just couldn’t be sure.

Either way, his phone call to Carol was the same, his thoughts unchanged. “I don’t know if I can do it,” Daryl told her, his eyes on the garage door at the end of his driveway. “I want to work with Rick, but Shane’s a complete ass. He hates me as much as he hates Merle.”

Carol waited for the hum of his motorcycle to die down. “I find that hard to believe,” she said. “There’s a lot of bad blood between Shane and your brother, and you’ve always said you managed to avoid most of it.”

Daryl coughed into his hand, throwing his leg over the side of his bike. “I don’t think Rick took it that way,” he said. “I’m worried he hates me. Didn’t say it, but I can’t read him.”

“What did you tell him?” Carol asked, listening as Daryl pulled down the latch on his garage, his motorcycle tucked safely inside.

Daryl hung his head. “I told him I broke Shane’s nose, back in first year. I wasn’t sure what else to say; he asked, and I didn’t want to lie.”

“But did you tell him the whole story?” She asked. “Did you tell him—?”

“Don’t say it,” Daryl said, stopping her, speaking over the words he knew she had on the tip of her tongue. “Of course I didn’t tell him. I’m not outing myself in front of him; he’ll never talk to me again.”

That made Carol sigh, a sweet sound, bitter and full of regret. “Daryl,” she said softly, “listen carefully, okay? Rick doesn’t get a free pass for being a bigot just because he’s cute.”

“I never said—” But Daryl stopped himself. “Look, I don’t know how he would take it, alright? And I don’t want to know. But that’s not the same thing.”

Carol tapped the speaker on her phone. “That’s the sound of me flicking your nose,” she said, for a moment acting amused. “And I promise you, Rick doesn’t hate you. Don’t talk like that.”

“If someone told you they’d broken _my_ nose, would you hate them?” Daryl asked, rummaging through his bag for his house key.

Carol grumbled something inaudible. “I’d ask why first,” she said. “Maybe you deserved it. Maybe it was an accident. I wouldn’t know.”

Daryl locked the door behind him. “I just didn’t think it’d be this bad, with either of them. Shane’s up my ass, and Rick just…I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Maybe I should just bail while I can.”

“You’re afraid,” Carol countered. “But I know you’re excited to work with Rick; just being around him—it makes you happy.”

Daryl rubbed his eyes. “So you don’t think I should call him, about leaving the group. That’s what you’re trying to tell me?”

Carol was silent a moment, but Daryl could imagine her nodding, her eyes on her hand, her fingers around the edge of her elbow. “I just think you should sleep on it,” she said softly, gently, as if afraid to startle him. “In case you feel differently about it. You might, in the morning, or on the weekend. You have to give these things time.”

Daryl leaned his head back against his bedroom door, his schoolbag by his feet, his hand in his hair. “Shane’s not gonna change,” he said.

“I know love,” Carol said, almost laughing. “But you already knew that, and it still didn’t stop you from smiling at all of Rick’s bad jokes.”

Daryl had no idea what to say to that; he flicked off the lights in his room, as if it could hide the look on his face.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?” Carol asked after a beat, sensing Daryl was done sharing for the day. “I’ll save you a seat at the counter?”

“Yeah, in the corner,” Daryl mumbled. “I’ll, uh—tell Sophia I said hey.”

Carol’s voice lit up. “I’m sure she knows,” she said softly, the sound of her feet on her kitchen tile echoing across the phone line. “Goodnight love.”

Daryl closed his eyes. “Goodnight.”

Almost immediately, he regretted hanging up; in the resounding silence, crashing in to fill the room, Daryl found himself alone again with his thoughts, as heavy and horrid as they’d been the entire ride home, Shane’s voice like the dirt on his tongue kicked up by his tires. _We don’t need you,_ he’d said. _Keep your distance._

At the thought of that, the empty, hollow echo, Daryl knew Carol had been right; if he was smart, he would wait, and let the shape of those words fade into dust. But he felt impulsive, his hands shaking with the same nervous energy they had just this morning, when he’d first dialed Rick’s number into the keys on his phone, the dial tone snaking through his ear and across his teeth.

But did he want to give it up? What he had? He touched his wrist, his fingers drawn to the numbers on his skin like they were raised against his bones, braille to a blind man.

_If he knew how I felt,_ Daryl thought to himself, _if he knew…_

A sinking feeling made Daryl close his eyes again. He wasn’t strong enough; he couldn’t do it.

So he dialed Rick’s number, just like he had before, tapping the buttons one by one. And...god, the ringing nearly destroyed him, the empty sound of the chime and the buzzing, the vibration faint and quiet against his hand.

Only Rick never picked up, and Daryl was left waiting half a heartbeat more.

“Hey, this is Rick,” played the automated message, crisp and clean and everything Daryl knew his own voice could never be. “Sorry I missed you. Leave me a number and I’ll call you back.”

_Beep._

“Hey Rick, it’s Daryl,” Daryl said, his eyes closed, his hand folded up in a fist under his pillow. “I uh…I don’t know if I can do this whole group thing, with me and you and Shane. I’m sorry to go back on what I said today, but—don’t worry about calling me back.”

And with that, Daryl hung up, the light from his phone casting long shadows across his room. There was no sound after the click of the receiver, no shift of the sheets or groan of the mattress, but quietly, in the stillness, Daryl could feel the slight tremor of his breathing, the beat of his heart a harsh thing in the silence.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*whispers* Rick and Lori don't actually have sex in this one, so if that's not your jam, you're good)

Lori had only just slipped onto Rick’s lap, the button of his jeans open in her hands, when she first heard the vibration of his phone, a low sound deep and jarring against the rustle of his clothes. The noise shouldn’t have startled her, but the ringing drew her eyes across the darkness of the room, Rick’s lips slowly pulling away from the curve of her neck, his eyes betraying a mix of annoyance and curiousity.

“Should I guess?” He asked her, his voice husky and breathless, his hands on her hips, his fingers urging the soft grind of his growing erection against the inside of her thighs. “Me or you?”

Lori moved her hands into his hair, pushing her knees into the mattress on either side of his body. “It’s you,” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear, her teeth grazing his skin as she murmured her words along her tongue. “Just ignore it; it’ll stop.”

Rick hummed a response against her throat, kissing her chin, then her cheek, before filling his hands with her bra. “Can you see the number on the screen?” He asked.

Lori laughed, a gentle sound that fluttered through a shaky breath. “God, you’re romantic,” she teased, shifting her weight along her legs, her hands grabbing the top of Rick’s headboard for support as she rocked her hips back and forth. “ _No one_ needs you more than I do right now.”

And at that, she kissed him, deeply and desperately, pulling his lower lip into her mouth while she traced the shape of it lightly with her tongue. At the same time, with aching slowness, Rick slipped his fingers under the wire of her bra, following the elastic around to her back where he fumbled with the latch as he kissed her, peppering the inside of her shoulder.

“It’s late, Lori,” he whispered, his breath hot and sticky against her throat.

“Exactly,” she replied, and to shut him up, she kissed him, her hands on either side of his face, the lace of her bra rubbing against his chest.

But to her surprise, the quiet didn’t last; Rick’s eyes were soon on her face again, her bra loose on her shoulders but still pressed close to her skin. “What if it’s important?”

Lori narrowed her eyes, still willing to be playful but slowing her movement over his lap. “Get me on top of you, and I’ll check, okay?”

Rick tossed her bra onto the floor. “I can do that,” he said, his hands slipping behind her back, her chest flush against him. He murmured something else, but Lori didn’t catch it; with a single shift, she was up off the bed, Rick on his knees, her legs around his waist.

“Don’t you dare drop me,” Lori said lightly, laughing quietly into his hair.

Rick smiled against her neck. “I’ve got you,” he promised.

At the groan of the mattress again, Rick eased himself down against her body, his waist between her legs, his chest driving her into the sheets. At that angle, he had a fantastic thrust, long and close, his one hand on her waist, the other by her head. He felt amazingly hard, even through his pants, and Lori couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like to have him inside her, the buck of his hips against the back of her legs, the length of him moving deep and fast against her core.

“ _God,_ Rick,” she whispered suddenly, her voice full of need. “I want you. I want to feel you _everywhere_.”

Rick pushed his hands under her back again, between the mattress and her body. “I want you too,” he whispered.

But that was all he said, his breath in her hair, his lips by her temple, his cock against her leg. With her chest tight against him, he rolled over, pulling her on top of him, her left hip almost level with the bedside table. At her closeness, his cellphone finally stilled, the screen suddenly going black like the shadows colouring the room.

“We could just use a condom?” Lori asked.

Rick looked right through her. “We talked about this,” he said, his fingers in her hair, his palms cradling the sides of her face. “I just don’t want anything happening to you.”

Lori nodded, sitting up against his waist, shying away from the touch of his hands and the look in his eyes. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I know.”

With his worry clinging to the inside of her throat, Lori reached over the edge of the bed, her hand finding her own phone first, the shape of it long and smooth in the dark. Rick’s had shifted a few inches away, the vibration knocking it against the wood.

“Watch it be Andrea, or Glenn,” she said, taking the flip phone between her fingers. “Help,” she teased, “I need the notes from class this morning.”

But Rick’s screen didn’t list a name; there was nothing but numbers, all in a line, and a small notification in white and black that read: _You have (1) new voicemail._

“Well?” Rick asked, sitting up partway from the bed, his arms bent behind his shoulders. “Who is it?”

Lori wasn’t sure what to say. “I don’t know,” she replied.

Even in the dark, seeing Rick reach for his phone was almost too much; with her free hand, Lori pushed him down, closing the phone and tossing it back beside her own. Only, in the blackness, she missed, and it dropped like a brick onto the carpet.

“Hey,” Rick said, turning his head, following the sound as his cell hit the floor. “Be careful with that.”

Lori sighed. “I’m sorry, I missed,” she said, stepping quickly off of Rick’s bed. “I’ll get it.”

With her lip between her teeth, Lori bent down on the carpet and felt around for the phone, finding it near the floorboards, the screen still closed. In her hand, it suddenly felt very cold, almost alien, like something sent to destroy her.

“They left a voicemail,” she said softly, carefully, trying to keep her voice from betraying her. “But it’s probably just a telemarketer. No one else would call you at this hour.”

Rick sat up on the bed, the sheets shifting with his movement and under his weight. “What’s the number?” he asked.

Lori found his eyes through the dark, the near-pitch blackness clinging to her skin like tar. She read the numbers out to him, hating the sound of each and every one.

There was a pause, after that, but Lori could tell that Rick’s reaction was mixed, his shoulders tense with concern, his demeanor loose and casual. Still, he moved closer to her, his feet slipping over the edge of the mattress, his legs hitting the side of the bed-frame.

“I need to hear the message,” he said quietly. “It’s Daryl.”

Lori immediately felt a flush of relief, cool and wonderful and happy and bright. But it didn’t last.

“Why would he be calling you in the middle of the night?” She asked, holding out Rick’s phone, his fingers finding hers in the darkness.

“I don’t know,” he said. But he was lying, and they both knew it.

If she held her breath, Lori could almost make out the sound of Daryl’s voice, the highs of it, the lows of it, even the drag of the letters between his lips. But she couldn’t really hear anything; he could have been asking Rick for any number of things, from a loan to a pick-up after class. There was simply no way she would know.

A moment later, the message was over, Daryl’s receiver cutting the line. Immediately, Rick pulled the phone away from his ear, his voice laced with something very, very close to panic. “I have to call him back,” he said quickly, his words more air than sound. “I’ll just need a few minutes.”

But Lori moved just as quickly, almost impulsively, taking his phone right out of his hand. “What is this about?” she asked him. “What could be so important? I’m standing right here, naked to the waist, and you want to call him back?”

Rick stood up in front of her, his hands by his sides, not reaching for his phone but letting her keep it, his eyes on the wall, the smell of his sweat clinging to his chest. “It’s not like that,” he said quietly, but there was something in his voice now, something hidden just under the surface. Resignation, maybe.

The sound of it made Lori take a step back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything,” she whispered, turning away from him, her arms across her chest. It wasn’t him, really; it wasn’t even Daryl, or the hour, or the fact that he had called. It was her and it was Shane, it was sex and it was— _god,_ was there something wrong with her?

“Just…just pass me my shirt,” she said suddenly, dropping her hands. “It’s by your feet.”

Rick made a soft sound behind her, low, in his throat. But the shirt he handed her wasn’t her own; it was his, soft and warm, and he draped it over her shoulders like a blanket, an apology woven into the seams and the hem.

“I’m sorry, it’s my fault,” he whispered. “Not this, just, the shit with Daryl and Shane right now, it’s my fault, and I have to fix it somehow.”

Lori turned to him in the darkness, seeing her way out of this, hating how easily it came to her and how willing she was to reach out and pull it close. “It’s okay,” she said gently, touching his arm, putting his phone back in his hand. “Just walk me through it. Maybe I can help.”

With the pair of them back on the bed, Rick spread his hands, dropping his phone into his lap. “Did Shane ever talk to you about his nose?” he asked. “About what happened?”

Lori shifted closer to him, still buttoning up the last two on his shirt. “You’re talking about when Merle broke it?”

Rick shook his head. “That’s just it. I remember when I took Shane to the hospital that night, and he said, _fucking Dixon broke my nose._ I always assumed it was Merle, but Shane never said that it was.”

Lori shrugged, forcing herself to be nonchalant. “What does that have to do with anything?” she asked.

There was a soft sound in the darkness, of Rick’s head hitting the wall, or his elbow knocking against the headboard. “I overheard some things today,” he said, “when Shane and Daryl didn’t think I was paying attention. So I asked Daryl about it, and he said it was him—that it was Shane or it was Merle, so he broke Shane’s nose.”

Lori had no choice but to feign surprise. “I had no idea,” she said quietly, turning away, knowing her expression would belie her intention to cover for Shane. “I’m sure he never meant to keep it from you.”

Rick threaded his fingers together, his profile so sharp and defined in the poor light she could almost trace every line of it with her finger. “And that’s not even the worst of it,” he said, turning to her. “I know there’s more to the story. There’s something about that night that no one’s telling me—I can feel it.”

Thinking of Shane, Lori dropped her head; she couldn’t hold Rick’s gaze without giving away that was she was lying. “Is that what Daryl called about?” she asked.

Rick shook his head, his voice trying to mask something somber, something determined. “He wants out of the group,” he said.

Lori touched Rick’s leg. “Can you blame him?”

She could meet his eyes now, when they moved back to her face, searching her expression for something he wouldn’t find there, something he wouldn’t understand. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Lori shrugged again. “If he’d stayed, you’d have to hear shit from Shane about it for the next eight months. He’s your best friend; you shouldn’t be asking him to work with someone he hates.”

Rick started. “But Daryl—”

“But Daryl nothing,” Lori said, cutting him off. “I know you want a good M.E. for Hershel’s class, but he’s not the only one.”

That made Rick clear his throat against the back of his hand. “But he’s the best,” he said softly.

Lori laughed. “He has the best grades, yeah, but he doesn’t really have any friends. And it’s not like you’ll never talk to him again.” She paused a moment, hesitant, before quickly adding, “I know you think you can see the potential in people, but that doesn’t always mean the potential is there.”

Rick sighed at that, sounding defeated. He was quiet for a long time.

“I don’t know,” he said eventually. “I don’t know what to do. I know he’s the right choice.”

Lori laughed. “You make that sound like he’s your soulmate,” she said, teasing and playful, sick of the mood. She sat back up on her knees, easing herself onto Rick’s lap again, her hands on his face. “Just forget about Daryl Dixon, okay? He doesn’t matter.”

But Rick held her gaze, steady in his determination. “You’re wrong,” he said softly, almost to himself. “I know what I see in him, and you’re wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick shout-out to jsmith69 and Seta_Kaita for always commenting on my new chapters! You guys are awesome :D


	14. Chapter 14

Daryl soon realized he had very little self-control in situations where Rick was concerned. Even outside the school’s main campus, in a parking lot overrun by movement, students, and cars, the weight of Rick’s eyes alone were nearly enough to cripple him, his balance and handling as shot as his nerves. So to avoid an accident, Daryl slowed his approach on the rising gravel, but all that managed to do was give Rick an opportunity to wave to him, his eyes obscured by dark sunglasses, his smile small and tight. The rev of the engine between Daryl’s thighs did nothing to steady him now, the hum of his bike drowned out by the rush of heat to his face. He could sense what was coming.

His one chance to escape a confrontation came and went; the parking lot was packed, but Rick motioned to the space he had left between the side of his car and the nearby tree, a corner spot fully shaded and protected from oncoming traffic. It was a place Daryl would never have thought to park in, not today or any day, or next to any other car, but Rick made it feel safe, even as dread rose hot and horrid against the back of Daryl’s throat.

Pulling off his helmet, Daryl leaned his bike closer to the gravel, his foot on the ground. “You sure?” He asked, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead and tucking his helmet under his arm. “I can always park around back.”

Rick lifted his sunglasses. “I saved it for you,” he said, nearly shouting just to be heard over the sound of passing cars. “I had a feeling you’d need a place to park; this place fills up pretty fast in the morning.”

Daryl ducked his head, wishing he could bury it in the ground, smothering the colour he feared showed on his skin. “Hold my helmet?” he asked, his eyes on his hands, confident the drag of Rick’s gaze on his face was his imagination. “I’ll just back in.”

But instead of reaching out, Rick pulled away from the hood of his car, his long-sleeved pullover rolled to the elbows, the collar of a blue button-up flared against his throat. With two short strides, quick and purposeful, he was almost flush against the side of Daryl’s body, his hand on the outer surface of Daryl’s visor, the stray hairs escaping around the nose of his glasses, pushed back on his head, close enough to count.

“I know you told me not to you call back,” he said, his voice soft and controlled, his eyes searching Daryl’s face for something he hoped to see. “But I debated about it anyway, every day, from then till now. And I almost did, a couple of times—call you, I mean.” He looked down for a second, collecting himself. “Only thing was, I didn’t want you thinking I couldn’t respect your decision. That’s your call to make, after all; I can’t make you stay.” Rick touched the back of his head. “I just hope you’ll let me try and change your mind.”

Daryl didn’t have a choice; he forced his eyes away from Rick’s, facing forward, over the edge of the parking lot and into the street. How could he say no when Rick looked at him like that? 

“I’ll hear you out,” he said quietly, trying to keep a steady composure, unconcerned and unaffected. “But I can’t promise you anything.”

He looked back at Rick, slowly and cautiously, expecting a small smile, something to break the tension. But there was nothing; Rick just nodded, once, curt and quick.

Back on his bike, Daryl made a short turn in front of Rick’s car, backing up carefully between Rick’s driver’s side door and the roots of the nearby tree. His kickstand only took a moment more to lock in place.

Emerging into the sun, Daryl found Rick exactly where he’d left him, his helmet in Rick’s hands, Rick’s posture a collision of caution and tension, wistfulness and indecision. Suddenly, drawing up beside him became a challenge, not for his demeanor, but for his thoughts, whirling behind his eyes like the cogs in a broken machine, the ropes crossed and the loose piece breaking under the strain.

“Have you been waiting here all morning?” Daryl asked, hoping to ease the knot in Rick’s shoulders.

“Only a little bit,” Rick said, fumbling with his sunglasses as he moved them from his head to the neck of his shirt. “I looked around the lot and didn’t see your bike. I wanted to catch you before class.”

Daryl came up in front of him, his bag on his shoulder, his hands so close to Rick’s on his helmet he could feel the charge from his skin. “You’re a bad liar,” he said, smiling, just a little, enough to show he didn’t mean it. “No one gets a corner spot fifteen minutes before class starts.”

Rick met his eyes. “Will you walk with me?” he asked, pointedly ignoring the jab.

Daryl nodded. “Lead the way.”

So they weaved together through the flurry of traffic, the circling cars and the loose, meandering students, the odd one smoking, the rest talking to their friends. But by the entryway into the main building, the crowd thinned, leaving Rick and Daryl almost alone, out of earshot from anyone nearby, their voices swallowed by the wind just outside the reach of their arms.

“We have fifteen minutes,” Rick said, glancing at his watch, the band a cracked leather that circled loosely around his wrist. He lowered his arm, gesturing to a pair of benches just under a nearby window. “Can we sit? Would that be alright? No pressure.”

There wasn’t even a real discussion; Daryl was already headed that way, sensing the pull of Rick’s eyes, knowing even as he eased himself into the space beside him that most of his decision had already been lost. He was going to have to lie to Rick, about everything—or he was going to have to chance telling him the truth.

Rick leaned forward onto his knees, his elbows bent, his side profile illuminated by the reflection off the river. “I want to know what changed your mind,” he said, looking out towards the parking lot, towards the movement of the crowds and the hazy trails of car exhaust. “I want to know if there’s something I can do.”

Daryl traced a scratch along the side of his helmet. “I’m not sure there is,” he said softly.

There was a pause then, quiet and still, broken only by the carrying sound. Rick pressed his palms together, his determination like gasoline. “I heard what Shane said, back in the lab. About staying away from us. Is that the reason?”

Looking at the side of Rick’s head, Daryl shrugged. “I knew Shane would be a problem before I agreed to all this.”

“So it isn’t Shane?” Rick asked, turning his attention to Daryl now, nonplussed. “It’s something else?”

Daryl smiled. “No, it’s definitely Shane,” he said. “But I said yes before because of you.”

It was an admission that slipped right out of him, before he could stop it, the words like doves out of a basket, faster than music. He was two words in before he realized what he was saying, how it would sound—what it would mean.

But Rick was smiling now, openly and honestly, just like he had back in the lab, watching as Daryl took the sharpie from his hand and wrote on his arm. “Really?” he asked.

Daryl looked away, but it was too late now, too late to smother his thoughts under his fat and swollen tongue. “Sure,” he said.

Rick talked over his obvious embarrassment. “I swear I didn’t know about the shit with you and Shane,” he said, changing the subject, for all the world sounding a little flustered. “I always thought it had been Merle; that all the shit had been with Merle.”

“If you’d known earlier,” Daryl asked, still staring into the trees, “would you have still asked me to work with you?”

“If I’d known earlier,” Rick echoed, “I wouldn’t have had to. You’d have been on my radar a year sooner; I’d like to think you working with us wouldn’t have been a question. It’d just be a thing. I really do admire your work.”

Daryl looked back at him then, almost too stunned to say anything. Immediately, he considered backing up, backing away from the compliment like it’d set him on fire. But instead, he replied earnestly, a flicker of genuine pride flaring up inside his chest. “Thank you,” he said, meeting Rick’s gaze. “You uh, you do good work too.”

And then there was silence again, less awkward than before, but delicate, tentative, like a truce.

But Rick eventually held out his hands, like he was trying to catch the coming rain. “So if it’s not something Shane said, but still Shane, what happened? What did he do?”

_Lie,_ Daryl thought. _Tell him a lie._

But he couldn’t, not with Rick looking at him like that, hopeful now, his smile like a drug, pulling out all the laugh lines of his face, warm and honest. “It’s not something Shane’s done,” Daryl said slowly, feeling the weight of every word settling against his bones. “It’s something…he knows, about me. Something personal. And if he’s angry enough, I’m worried he’ll tell people, when it’s nobody’s business.”

Rick waited for Daryl to continue, but he almost didn’t, almost couldn’t stand the thought of putting half his concern into words. So he leaned forward on his knees too, crossing his arms, lowering his helmet onto the cement by his feet. “Don’t ask me,” he said quietly. “And don’t ask him.”

Then there was movement, out of the corner of his eye, so Daryl turned, expecting to see Rick nodding, or standing, walking away from him, motioning for him to follow. _I understand,_ he imagined Rick saying. _I won’t push you. Shane’s an ass; I get it._

But Rick didn’t do any of that, his words not words at all, but air, breath pressing hard against his teeth. His shoulders were shaking, and something had come over his face, a mix of disbelief and something beautiful, tarnished by something very, very angry. He was sighing and he was laughing; he was inhaling and exhaling and trying to speak. It was a lot, happening all at once, things competing with each other until nothing remained to make any sound at all.

“God, I think I know what it is,” he said at last, his lips full of holes, the sound of his voice escaping out the side of his mouth. “I think I know what it is.”

Daryl’s stomach dropped. In the space of half a second, confliction ran hotter in his blood than concern. Was it worse for Rick to be wrong, and imagine the truth was something horrid? Or for him to be right?

“I’m not a murderer,” Daryl whispered, hoping to break the tension but failing, his voice so soft and airy there was nothing lighthearted about it.

Rick ran his hand through his hair, sitting up on the bench. “I want to call him out,” he said, avoiding Daryl’s eyes. “He’s my best friend; I know exactly what he’s thinking. But if I’m wrong, I don’t want to offend you.”

Daryl couldn’t move, his arms and legs suddenly filled with lead. “You won’t offend me,” he said.

Rick let out a breath of hot air from between his teeth. “He gives me shit for it too,” he said.

Their eyes met, serious and intense, guarded and afraid. “For what?” Daryl asked.

Rick closed his eyes, dropped his head, not embarrassed but tense, not ashamed but unsure. “For liking guys,” he said.

Daryl stood up.

The movement had been a reaction, quick and hurried, jagged around the edges like a poorly ripped sheet of paper, ugly and wrinkled. It made Rick look up in a mix of alarm and apology, preparing to backpedal, his thoughts tripping over themselves on his face, his eyes crossed with something broken and sad.

But Daryl didn’t walk away; he just stood there, not really sure what to do, sensing the ease in Rick’s body, the comfort, the understanding. But there was surprise there too; maybe Rick hadn’t known, before that morning, like Daryl hadn’t known, would never have guessed.

Still, the revelation changed little. “I don’t want anyone to know,” Daryl said quietly, his back partially turned towards Rick. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

And just like that, Daryl said what was probably the most honest and most vulnerable thing he had ever said to anyone—let alone Rick, someone he hardly knew, Mr. Alpha Male with the pretty girlfriend and the incredible body and the most beautiful eyes.

“Daryl?” Rick asked him, open-ended and unfair.

Daryl took a deep breath before turning around, rubbed raw by the sharp edge of Rick’s voice, firm and serious. He whispered his name.

“No one would care,” Rick said, expression steeled. “Glenn, Andrea, Lori—they all know about me, they’re not gonna give two shits about you.” He locked his jaw. “But I respect your choice. Just know that if Shane had ever said _anything_ about you like that, without your permission, in front of _anyone_ , I’d save you the trouble and break his nose myself.”

Daryl couldn’t meet Rick’s eyes. It was a topic that hurt him too much, soundless and shapeless in his own mind; to hear it coming from someone else was torture.

“Can I buy you a coffee later?” Rick asked suddenly, getting to his feet, glancing at his watch again. “I mean, _actually_ buy you a coffee? There’s a good place on the other side of campus.”

Daryl was quickly running out of things to do, the air in his lungs so thin it was a wonder he was breathing. “No,” he said quietly. “You can’t buy me a coffee.”

Rick nodded slowly in understanding, not upset but resigned, accepting of his fate. “Alright, that’s alright,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. Any of the other groups would be happy to have you.” He passed Daryl on his left side, holding out his helmet, his eyes soft on the edge of his face, his smile small and easy. “Let’s go to class?”

But Daryl hesitated, reaching out, touching Rick’s hand, careful with the contact but meaningful, purposeful. “I can’t be in more than one group,” he said softly, his eyes anywhere but Rick’s face. “And I’d like to buy _you_ a coffee, all things considered.”

At that, Rick looked up, genuinely stunned. But half an eternity later, he grabbed Daryl’s shoulder, squeezing it twice, the pressure uneven. “If you ever need anything, call me,” he said, but whether he was talking about Shane, or class, or something else, or everything else, Daryl had absolutely no idea.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*whispers* Shane and Lori have sex in this chapter, so head's up! Skip to the end for a brief summary of the important bits, or skip about two-thirds through the story to "Lori smiled at the mention of it" so you can read the more important dialogue)

Despite knowing Rick was just outside, in the corner of the parking lot, Lori wasn’t surprised to find herself alone with Shane, his hand up her skirt and her back against the wall, his shoulders braced against her and his lips against her throat. She'd known full-well this would happen, when she let him touch her there—she'd encouraged him, even, moaning his name, spreading her legs, letting his fingers find the thin lace of her underwear, the pressure and the haste and the thrill of it almost more than she could bare.

“Rick still holding out on you?” he asked, his lips near her ear, his other hand in her hair, holding her close. “Tell me you need me baby.”

Lori moved her head back, exposing more of her throat, Shane nipping her playfully as she trembled against his body. “Oh god, yes,” she said, her eyes on his face, their lips hungry for each other. “Fuck me like a bad girl. Fuck me like you need me.”

The suggestion made Shane laugh, the sound low and dirty in his throat, like a groan. “I know a place,” he said, pulling her away from the wall, taking her hand. “Just come with me.”

So Lori followed after him, pulling on his arm, smiling as she kissed his hand. “You’re a monster,” she teased, feeling lightheaded and dazed at the loss of his fingers against her. “Can we hurry?”

“Trust me, I’m hurrying,” he whispered, kissing her ear and her cheek and her nose. “It’s just over here.”

With a twist of his wrist then, his back to the door, Shane pulled them both into a handicapped bathroom, breathless and laughing, smothering the sound against their clothes, his shirt already on the floor. “Over the sink?” he asked, his hands in the back of her skirt, pulling at the elastic. “Or on top of it? How do you want me?”

Lori buried her fingers in his hair, pulling his face back against hers. “God, don’t make me beg,” she said, kissing him deeply, looking for his tongue, sucking on his lip.

Shane groaned. “On your hands, then,” he said, pulling her shirt over her head, pulling her bra apart with his hands. But before she moved, he cradled her back against his arm, pressing her so close to him she had to stand on her toes, his mouth on her chest, his breath like thunder on her skin.

The contact made her moan, over and over again, her voice choked and sharp, her nails dragging across his shoulders as she left her name along his skin. She could hardly stand it, the feeling of her nipples under his tongue, the crotch of his jean rubbing up against her, his fingers on her ass, her panties around her knees. It was everything—feeling wanted, feeling sexy, feeling special. In his arms, she was everything.

“Turn around,” he whispered to her, harsh and intense, his hands on her hips, moving her body against the sink. “And keep your eyes on me; I want to see your face in the mirror.”

“Shane—” Lori started, but she couldn’t say it, couldn’t manage it, the slap of his hand against her bare skin unraveling her, his belt unbuckled against his crotch, his boxers in his hands, his cock against her leg. She moved back against him, hardly caring.

As he pushed inside her, slowly this time, Lori moaned again, bracing her hands on the bathroom sink, Shane’s head against her neck. She cried out softly at the length of him, her hips against the porcelain, her left hand against the mirror, his fingers pressed on top of hers.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, taking her waist in his right hand, his body starting to pull back, away from her, before moving forward again, easing his way back inside her.

“I’m not sure I can,” she whispered softly, and he laughed, his eyes dark in the smoky colour of the mirror, the surface marred by the prints from their palms.

Shane fucked her hard after that, rough against the sink, his hands in her hair, on her hips, around her waist, against his chest. He grunted once or twice, like an animal, his teeth by her neck, grazing her skin; his groans were deeper though, territorial in a way she absolutely loved, his eyes finding hers in the mirror again and again, magnetic and charged.

And it seemed to last forever, Shane’s endurance like a tank, engineered for war. And behind her, at her back, he was saying all the right things, all the things Rick would never say, desperate and dirty and teasing and mean.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he said, harsh in the throes of movement, pulling one of Lori’s arms behind her shoulders, her body arching up to meet his face.

“I’m yours, I’m yours,” she said, hardly able to speak, forcing the words along her tongue and loving the struggle. “No one makes me feel like you do.”

Shane came so quickly after that Lori hardly had the time to brace, his cry a sharp sound in her hair, their bodies ramming together. “Oh fuck,” he said against her, his arms tight around her chest, holding her close. “Oh god, Lori.”

“Shane?” She whispered, half a question, half a sigh, half a murmur thick with relief. “Shane, you’re not wearing a condom.”

“Ah, sorry,” he said quickly, but he made no move to leave her, his heartbeat faint between her legs, his breath hot against her back. “Just take a morning after again. I’ll pay for it, I don’t care; just don’t go.”

Lori laughed at that, turning as much as her body would allow, kissing Shane’s fingers. “Was it good?” she asked.

“The best,” Shane replied, moving his head so he could kiss her, his hand under her chin. “I’d take you again if you’d let me.”

“We can’t Shane,” she said softly, bemoaning his neediness, the feeling tight across her belly. “We’ll both be late for class.”

Shane hummed something in response, bending over to kiss her, one of his hands slipping between her legs. “I’ll see you after class then,” he said, “same spot as last week.”

Lori smiled at the mention of it, but the ecstasy slid off her face, dread settling in against her, hateful and warranted. “But what about Rick?” she asked, in the quiet of the room, Shane just beginning to ease out of her body. “Oh, god, what about Rick?”

Shane slowed his pace, his hands on her shoulders. “Hey, hey,” he whispered across her back, “I’ve told you not to worry about Rick. I’m sure he’ll just fuck Daryl again; you’ll see, he’ll be off again before you know it.”

At the sudden loss of him, Lori sighed against her hand, even as she turned around in confusion, Shane’s face slightly red from exertion, his body posed beautifully in the harsh light, sweat in his hair, his eyes on her chest. “What are you talking about?” she asked.

Shane crossed his arms. “He’s always wanted a guy; he’s told you too, hasn’t he?”

“But he hardly knows Daryl,” she countered, her voice small and tight, remembering that voicemail in the middle of the night and the edge of sudden panic that had lined Rick’s voice. “They can’t be. He won’t sleep with me; he wouldn't sleep with a stranger.”

But Shane touched her cheek, leaning into her headspace, his body warm to the touch, his fingers like fire. “Listen to me,” he whispered, so close to her his words seemed to trap themselves against her face. “I know you like him, and I respect that, but until he knows what he wants, what side he’s on, he’s gonna take whatever comes his way. I’m sure Daryl’s sucking his dick right now, in the backseat of the car.”

Lori looked up into Shane’s eyes. “And I have to be okay with that?” she asked softly, thinking of her and Shane’s nakedness, even now, the thrill of it, the passion. “The two of them together? Even if he won’t…even if he won’t touch me like that?”

Shane took her face in his hands, kissing her until the tension eased from her slowly, her body relaxing. “You have me,” he said gently. “I’ll be anything you want, anything you need. I love you.”

Lori pulled back. “Shane? Oh god, you can’t.”

But Shane smiled down at her, bold and quiet, serious now, more than she’d ever seen him. “Hey, I do, and it’s not my fault,” he said. “You’re beautiful, you’re smart, you’re funny. I’ve always wished you were mine.”

Lori lowered her head. “You can’t tell me that,” she said. “It’s not fair.”

“Leave him,” Shane whispered.

“I can’t,” Lori said. “I can’t. If I'm with you, it’ll look terrible; he’ll know. This is all I have.”

At the quiet admission, hushed and barbed, Shane hugged her, the touch more intimate than sex, more intimate than kissing. “I’ll take whatever you have,” he said, “but you can’t string me along forever. You’re the love of my life.”

Lori closed her eyes at that, squeezing them shut, wondering if Shane was telling her the truth or saying it because she needed it, so she could feel beautiful. “Don’t say that,” she said softly. “I can’t say it back.”

But Shane only held her tighter, her breath on his shoulder. “You’ll change your mind,” he whispered. “I’m holding out. You have to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (For those who skipped this chapter due to content, here's the takeaway: Lori and Shane have unprotected sex in a single stall bathroom on campus; Lori admits to herself that sex with Shane makes her feel beautiful and wanted in a way Rick doesn't make her feel (she's clearly upset they haven't slept together yet); Shane tells Lori that Rick is sleeping with Daryl because he's bisexual and can't make up his mind about what he wants; Shane tells Lori he loves her, and Lori feels bad she can't say it back, although there's a hint she still wants to hear it; Lori tells Shane she can't break up with Rick and date him because it'll look bad for them; Shane tells Lori she'll change her mind about loving him.  
> \--So yeah, that's it in a nutshell!)


	16. Chapter 16

Rick knew his weakness the moment Daryl touched his hand, his eyes on the ground; knew it the moment his heart hit his ribs, his lungs the edge of his throat. It wasn’t the contact, despite the goosebumps that rose on his body; it wasn’t the closeness, despite the press of Daryl’s breath, the shape of his jaw sharp and defined. It was, in a way, simply the essence of _Daryl_ —it was the callouses on his palm, the weight of his skin, the slide of their bodies, the press of his bones. It was, all at once, the _wanting_ that made Rick weak, even as the shyness in Daryl’s face betrayed nothing, and he was the one to break their contact.

“Would it be alright if I left my helmet in your car?” he asked suddenly, the sun at his back, the doors to the lecture hall half a foot from his hand. “I mean, if you don’t mind.”

Rick fumbled through his answer. “Yeah, yeah, of course,” he said, reaching immediately for his front pocket, privately thrilled, loving the smell of his car on Daryl’s clothes and the smell of Daryl’s clothes in his car. “I’ll walk with you.”

“You don’t have to,” Daryl said softly, offering with a nod of his head to run back and forth across the parking lot. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“What, you don’t like my company?” Rick asked, raising his eyebrow.

Daryl met his eyes, the look steady and charged. “It’s up to you,” he said. “I’m good either way.”

So Rick walked with him, savouring the extra time, Daryl’s stride slowed to match his, the pull of his bag showing off the shape of his shoulder, the drag of his hand against his leg like a metronome. 

“The front seat okay?” Rick asked, his key in the driver’s side door, Daryl just behind him. “Or I could pop the trunk. It’s really up to you.”

Daryl considered it for a moment, hesitating. “The front is fine,” he said, his smile like a ghost against his mouth, private and small. “If someone breaks in to steal it, I’ll have an excuse to show you the shop.”

“The shop?” Rick repeated, watching as Daryl leaned over his seat, turning his helmet away from the sun. “You don’t own one, do you?”

Daryl turned to him, something excited in his eyes—pride, maybe, or courage. “Not quite,” he admitted, his eyes moving back to his hands, “but it’s a good place. I have a feeling you’d like it.”

Rick smiled. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said softly, almost afraid to be genuinely touched.

“Not to imply anything,” Daryl added quickly. “I mean, my shit’s not that nice.”

But he wouldn’t meet Rick’s eyes after that, his attention pinned across the parking lot. Rick followed his gaze, worried he’d made a mistake. Had he misunderstood? Spoken too soon? Had he done something wrong?

“Can I stop by even if my car isn’t smashed?” Rick asked, his voice light and teasing now, hoping to lessen the tension.

But Daryl turned towards him, still looking down. “I work four times a week,” he said, his lips pulled just a little to the side. “So yeah, on a quiet day—just ask for me.”

It was an invitation that hung in the air, even as Rick looked away, his hand at the back of his head, his hair through his fingers. He couldn’t escape the thought of their time together, the smell of grease and oil and leather, the sound of car lifts and car exhausts. A private tour of an expansive two-level garage, complete with an hour of empty rooms and quiet breath, the rustle of their hands and the heat of their skin. It was a fantasy that made his blood run.

"I'll have to stop by sometime," Rick said, trying to hide his embarrassment, pulling out his phone from the front of his backpack and texting Shane with a flick of his wrist. _I’m running a little late,_ he typed, pressing each number key over and over again. _Cover for me?_

Shane wrote back almost immediately. _I got held up,_ he wrote, his text lacking any punctuation. _I’ll meet you there._

At the sound of the buzzing, Daryl slowed his pace, holding open the door to the lecture hall as he glanced over at Rick’s hand. “You still use a flip phone?”

Rick closed it quickly and handed it to him, like he was sharing an old relic from war museum. “It’s always worked for me,” he said. “I don’t need anything fancy.”

The admission made Daryl smile, easy and bright. Rick tried to return it, but couldn’t hold his gaze. “Don’t you ever want to play games or something?” he asked.

Rick shook his head. “I have pong; that’s enough for me.”

At that, they both laughed, a cheery sound that fluttered through the air like sunlight. It shouldn’t have been so easy; Rick sensed the unfairness of it, like a trick or a phony advertisement. At least, if it were harder, things would be different, simpler, the space between them easier to keep.

In the meantime, Rick continued sabotaging his own opportunity to get away, to break things off, to keep things professional and friendly. At the door to their workshop space, he could have pulled to the side, letting Daryl through first; instead, he touched Daryl’s arm, hating to see him go. “I’ll see you soon?” he asked.

Daryl turned to him. “We’re in the same room,” he said softly, suddenly cautious.

Rick pulled back his hand, catching Daryl’s jacket between his forefinger and thumb. “But don’t you ever feel the divide?” he asked. “Between the M.E. students and the investigators?”

That made Daryl shrug. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “Most of the disciplines are like that. Even the ones who work in the lab; it’s like a competition all the time.”

"I didn't know," Rick said, looking away as he pulled open the door, letting the sound of the students inside wash slowly over his head. “Does it ever bother you?” he asked, wishing he could tell Daryl he just wanted them to stay together, within earshot, within eyesight.

Daryl looked away. “Once,” he said.

At the sight of his back, Rick turned to his friends, looking for Andrea to distract him from Daryl. Luckily, despite the scattered pieces of a makeshift crime scene, she wasn’t hard to find; she caught his eye right away in the corner of the room, her feet in the air from where she sat on a desk, the top scratched with nail marks and pen. “It’s about time you got here,” she said, her eyes on the space behind him. “Where’s Shane?”

Rick turned around. “He should have been here before me,” he said, pulling out his phone again. “I just stopped to talk to Daryl.”

Andrea narrowed her eyes. “Shane mentioned you asked him to work with us,” she said, sounding, not annoyed, but impressed. “I honestly can’t believe it. Did he agree?”

The memory made Rick smile, almost as much as Andrea’s warm approval, her respect easing a stone of worry from the lining of his throat. “Yeah,” he said softly, as if he couldn’t believe it either. “He’s our man.”

“I have no idea how you managed to do that,” Andrea said, nodding slowly, looking over his shoulder and across the room for Daryl’s back. Rick turned too, and together they watched him, just for a moment, with his head over his work, his hands in his bag. “I know some guys in the lab,” Andrea continued. “I mean, I know we all do, but these guys…they’ve always said Daryl works alone. Keeps to himself. But he’s the best, from what they say.”

Rick nodded. “I could believe that,” he said. “He reminds me of you, actually.”

Andrea smiled. “What? Really?”

“Yeah,” Rick said, laughing into the back of his hand. “He’s serious, just like you. Works hard. Knows what he wants.”

The suggestion lit up Andrea’s face. “Thanks for that,” she said proudly, moving off the desk so she could touch his arm, squeezing it gently. “I could say the same thing about you.”

Shane’s voice suddenly came from behind them both. “Say the same about what?” he asked.

Rick spun around. It took him all of a moment and a quick once-over to know exactly where Shane had been—pressed up against a wall with a girl on his chest, her lipstick stained, just a little, on the collar of his shirt. “Damn it, Shane,” Rick said softly, raising his eyebrow a little. “Tell me you left Lori somewhere before you snuck off with someone else.”

Shane’s eyes slammed into Rick’s face. “Who do you think I am?” he asked, not angry, but teasing, arrogant and cocky like he always was. “I’m a gentleman, of course I took care of her.”

Rick immediately turned to Andrea, who laughed, her hair loose about her face like a shock-wave. “A gentleman?” she echoed, “a _gentleman?_ Where do you hide that guy—under your shoe? _I’ve_ never seen him.”

Shane crossed his arms, resting his hip against the desk. “Are you asking to?”

Andrea held up her hands. “If I ever change my mind on that, I’ll let you know.”

“But not in front of me please,” Rick cut in, feeling lost in the conversation. “I mean, unless you’re really into that. We could talk about it first.”

And then they were laughing, all three of them, a quiet, mostly muffled sound in the almost warehouse-like space that surrounded them, the cement floors and tall steel rafters threatening to magnify their voices by a vicious tenfold. Still, it was a pure moment, easy and unguarded, especially after a morning so tense with fear and relief that Rick had almost cut himself on the edges of it.

“Enjoying yourselves, I see,” their professor suddenly noted, coming up behind them with his usual slow gait, his hand on his cane, his white hair trimmed like a hedgerow. “I didn’t realize murder could be so entertaining.”

Andrea ducked her head. “Sorry professor,” she said, smiling towards the floor, her pencil nearly sliding out from behind her ear. “We just got carried away.”

“It’s a team-building exercise,” Shane said, coming up behind her, his arms across his chest. “It’s good for morale and all that.”

Hershel smiled gently. “Either way,” he said slowly, tapping his cane lightly on the floor, “you’re going to miss your M.E.’s first report if you don’t pay attention.” 

Rick turned around. “ _Our_ M.E.?” he asked, his eyes immediately searching the room.

" _Yes,_ our M.E.,” Andrea said, as if she had always known exactly who that was. “Come on guys, let’s go.”

So with Shane just behind her, Andrea moved quickly through the room’s maze of a crime scene, strips of yellow police tape hanging loosely from broken chairs. Behind them, three or four paces slower, Rick checked his speed to stay near Hershel, the older man not hobbling but managing, his cane a rhythmic _thump_ on the concrete floor.

“I sense you want to ask me something,” Hershel said, turning to Rick, his eyes betraying an innate sense of concern.

“It’s nothing serious,” Rick said, his voice low. “I was just wondering if one of the M.E.s had said something to you, because our group hasn’t actually signed up for the next assignment yet.”

Hershel hummed under his breath in response, his attention back to the waiting students sprawled in a semi-circle just up ahead. “Daryl was the one who mentioned it to me,” he replied. “Said he’d spoken with you. I didn’t mean to pry; I was just concerned why he’d turned down so many of the other groups.”

That caught Rick’s attention. “Turned down?” he repeated, meeting Hershel’s eyes. “I didn’t know anyone else had talked to him.”

At that, Hershel smiled. “Good work is hard to hide,” he said, nodding again towards the other students, their eyes on the floor. “He was the only one to theorize about a partial dismemberment today, so he was only one to get top marks. That sort of thing tends to attract attention.”

“I guess that’s true,” Rick said, following Hershel’s gaze, finally coming close enough to see the white silhouette outlined on the floor with thick masking tape. “Is that supposed to be me?” he asked, noticing how the shape held his weight, how the ‘x’ marked his gunshot.

“Has anyone else been murdered recently?” Hershel asked, laughing quietly to himself. "Then again, I wouldn't be the one to know, would I?"

It was a question that took Rick a moment to understand. But in a flash, he realized Hershel had been talking about Daryl, and he turned just in time to catch a glimpse of his friend's eyes before they was focused again on his presentation.

"Can I actually ask you something else?" Rick wondered, turning back to Hershel. "Just about whether or not we still need a small group for next week? I saw your email last Friday, about moving up the mock trial date."

Hershel nodded slowly. “It’s supposed to help you get a feel for who you might want to work with for the rest of the year,” he replied, “since so many students limit their friends to their own discipline.” 

“We’re all guilty of it, really,” Rick said, nodding even as he glanced over Hershel’s arm, his eyes finding Daryl’s again as they looked for each other. “Sorry. Excuse me, professor.”

So with a quick nod, Rick took his leave, winding his way as quickly as he could to Daryl’s side, his expression a little shy, the clamour around his friend a little overwhelming. But even between the other students, suddenly anxious to crowd their star M.E., and Hershel, walking up on his other side, Daryl found the time to step away, reaching for Rick’s hand, his fingers ghosting against his knuckles with something that was almost affection.

“Tell me I didn’t just flunk the mock trial,” Daryl whispered, leaning in to be heard over the chatter that floated all around them. “I know we didn’t talk about it, but I think I just turned down the chance to work with half the class. So...we're okay, right?”

"Of course we are," Rick said, reaching out to return the touch, finding the contact oddly private, oddly personal. “You’ll always have a place with us,” he promised, then added, “even if not with Shane, at least with me.”

Daryl smiled then, relaxing under Rick's hand. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said softly, before looking away. “Stay with me?” he asked.

Rick moved closer beside him, feeling the heat rise to his face. “I’ll be here,” he said softly, looking out over the room, between the students and the furniture, the crime scene tape and the fake blood. “I’ll be right here.”


	17. Chapter 17

They had only just made it to the café after class when it happened, an accident over in the blink of an eye—Daryl’s hands on the door to the shop, Rick just behind him, and suddenly, there, through the glass, a girl on a pair of long wooden crutches, her foot bound in white, a cast on her knee.

Even in hindsight, there was simply no way to avoid her, not when Rick hadn’t seen her—couldn’t have seen her, over the back of Daryl’s head and shoulders. Even Daryl, half a step ahead of him, reacted a moment too slow, pulling open the door just as someone else did the same, the metal swinging out towards him, the handle aimed for his ribs.

But stepping back was a mistake, as Rick, unaware, swerved around him, almost knocking down the girl and her crutches as she flinched away from him. It was only on an impulse that Daryl managed to save them both, a split second reaction too fast for sight or for sound, his arm out in the space between them, reaching for Rick like a reflex, missing his elbow, catching his hand.

And then they were standing there, _right there,_ next to the open door, Rick’s right hand against Daryl’s palm, his left against Daryl’s shoulder, their bodies leaning together, pulling closer, caught in the imbalance. It shouldn’t have, but it was a moment that lingered in the air just a moment too long, too charged for what it was, chaotic and awkward.

But then Daryl looked up, and stepped back, just as Rick stepped forward, and looked down.

It was then, and only then, in the shadow of a heartbeat, as Daryl saw the expression on Rick’s face, the tilt of his chin, the drop of his eyes—it was _only then_ that he realized he had stumbled headfirst into the single scariest thing he had ever experienced. Worse than racing down a runway on the back of his bike, the front wheel damaged enough to give way; worse than hearing his phone ring at four in the morning, knowing it was Merle and only hoping for the best. It was worse than the fear of losing his scholarship, his apartment, even his share of the garage, worse than seeing the flashing lights of a police cruiser on the lines of the street. Worse than anything.

Because Daryl was here, and Rick was looking at his mouth like he might honestly lean down and kiss him.

Which was too much to think about—too much to even _pretend_ to consider. So Daryl turned away, quick and hurried, avoiding Rick hands and his eyes and his feet and his legs, his shirt and his shoes and his jeans and his shoulders. Everything.

“Daryl,” he heard Rick say from behind him, but by then he was already through the door, letting the sounds of the shop and the smell of the newly brewed coffee settle against his shattered nerves.

Only Rick wasn’t about to let him go.

 _“Daryl,”_ he said again, lower, softer, taking his arm between his fingers. “Please wait. Please.”

So Daryl turned around, even though he knew this was hardly the place for the kind of conversation Rick wanted to have, the tension in Rick’s hands heightened by the stiffness in his shoulders, a moment of something sharp—confusion, maybe, apology, dread?—passing suddenly over his face. But then it was gone, replaced with a steadfast confidence that lightened his eyes, easing a smile across the lines of his jaw.

“You okay?” he asked, as if nothing had happened, as if he couldn’t imagine why Daryl refused to meet his eyes.

But then again, maybe he was right to ask; maybe nothing _had_ happened. “Yeah, I’m fine, don't worry,” Daryl said, sucking in his breath through his nose and lifting his head. “Just wanted to get out of the way.”

Rick nodded quickly. “Right,” he said, his hand on the back of his head, his eyes on the room, the windows, the ceiling. “Good plan.”

But it was awkward; everything was awkward, from the way Daryl thought he was standing to the way he thought his voice was shaking, his eyes unfocused and his concentration on the wall. He thought to check his phone, to fiddle with the distraction, but he couldn’t remember his passcode for the life of him, so it sat in his hand like a dead weight, the cool plastic of the case digging into his hand.

Thankfully, it was Rick who noticed the tension, and Rick who broke it. “Shit, that’s Glenn,” he said, turning his head a little more to the right, returning a small wave. “Mind if I ask him something?”

Daryl shrugged. “You’re two cream, two sugar?”

Rick whipped around at that, surprise like a firecracker under his skin. “You remember from last week?” he asked.

Daryl looked away. “Lucky guess,” he said to the floor.

And then he was gone, hiding the trembling in his hands by fumbling with his bag, stepping into the line at the counter while Rick moved off through the crowd, Glenn waiting for him by a table near the window. It was hard to watch him go—even Daryl could admit that—but it was easier now, to breathe, to think, to still the _stupid fucking pounding_ of something hard and metallic in the heart of his ribs, the pain like a gunshot.

After that, texting Carol was his first reaction, the thought nearly instinctive, compulsive. _I’ve made a stupid-ass mistake,_ he said.

It took her all of four seconds to reply. _What’s wrong?_ she asked, followed by a little emoji of a monkey. _What happened?_

Daryl stared at the question. _It’s complicated,_ he wrote, but after a moment, deleted it. _I think I’m on a date with Rick fucking Grimes._

Carol laughed through the letters of her text, a sound Daryl could almost hear in the back of his mind. _Rick fucking Grimes?_ she wrote back. _Yeah, I think you’ve mentioned him before. He’s the one with those dreamy blue eyes that you love? The five o’clock shadow? The little freckle on his ribs?_

Daryl blanched. _What in the world are you talking about?_ he asked.

Carol took her sweet-ass time replying. _You’re very cute when you’re drunk,_ she said.

And with that, Daryl forced himself to look away, his eyes scanning the room for an empty table or a set of empty chairs—anything to keep his attention away from Rick, and away from the screen on his phone. But maybe he was looking too hard, concentrating too much, because suddenly the room was a blur of colour and movement, the sheen of the fake hardwood on the floors mixing with the red and blues and oranges and yellows of sweaters and jeans and t-shirts and shoes.

 _Carol,_ Daryl said, typing out her name in italics when he’d calmed his thoughts. _I’m serious. I need your help._

She replied almost instantly. _Why do you think it’s a date?_

It was a question Daryl didn’t even need to think about. _Because we’re flirting with each other,_ he wrote back, feeling almost lightheaded at the sight of those words. _Because he smiles when he looks at me, and whispers my name like he means it. Because he touches my back and my arms and my hands, and he laughs with me, and there’s so much fucking tension I’m terrified he’s going to kiss me._

But Daryl didn’t press send, even with his finger just over the button, the letters green and patient like the pin in a toy grenade. Was all of that even true?

He backspaced through it, through everything. _I just know,_ he wrote instead. _We’re at a coffee shop together. And it’s not for school._

Carol hesitated. _Love,_ she said slowly, even though Daryl couldn’t hear her voice. _I thought he had a girlfriend?_

It took a second, but the word crippled Daryl at the knees, not with jealousy, not with dread, but with embarrassment. _I know,_ Daryl sent back, heat making sweat stick to the small of his back. _That’s why I needed to talk to you. I don’t know what to do. Do I back off? Is it my fault?_

That made Daryl look up, his train of thought like a bulldozer. _Would he tell me when I’ve crossed the line?_ he asked Carol, typing slowly on his keypad as the words came to mind. _Maybe he won’t. Maybe he can’t._

But Daryl stopped. There was no point thinking in about it, about _that_ , not when he knew _Rick_ was unavailable, and _he_ was unavailable, Rick by his own admission, and Daryl—

Daryl by his own regret. His own shame, his own fear, his own dread; there was simply nothing about them that would have worked. No, Daryl Dixon would _never_ have dated Rick Grimes, Mr. I’ll-Probably-Be-Valedictorian-Of-My-Graduating-Year, Mr. My-Friends-Don’t-Even-Like-You. It just _wouldn’t_ have worked, even if they’d both admitted…fuck. That they both felt something warm and electric every time they looked at each other? Something special and powerful every time their hands touched? The thought was laughable.

So then why was he here? Why did he ask Rick out for coffee? And why had Rick been so bold with him, so willing, so forward? Why had he looked at his mouth?

It was almost too much to consider—again—standing there in that little coffee shop, his eyes closed, his back stiff. With the sounds of students to his left and to his right, with the heat of the sun on his face and the air supercharged by the smell of coffee and pastries. It was…god, it was too much to think through, because when he thought about it, he didn’t care; he _wanted_ Rick to kiss him, even just once, hurried and sloppy, even if they both regretted it for the rest of their lives. He wanted it because he wanted to _know,_ not about a kiss, but about Rick, about what they could have had in another life, with other circles, with different friends and different choices. In a life where Shane didn’t hate him and Merle wasn’t an ass, where Rick didn’t have a girlfriend and _maybe_ wanted a boyfriend instead. Then maybe this would have worked, _could_ have worked, because here and now they had nothing, save a little pain, a few secrets, and a greater fear of temptation than was fair.

At the admission, Daryl raised his eyes, the ceiling paint hideously uneven but at least more to look at than the back of his eyelids, too thin to block the light and too dark to hide his thoughts. And better yet, it kept him from looking for Rick, who he knew would turn his head the moment he felt eyes on his face, like a reflex, like a reaction, like magnets pulled his chin up and his jaw forward and his attention across the room.

Because what could Daryl do then, with Rick’s eyes on his skin, his expectation as heavy in the air as the smell of rain? What could he have done, even before, when those same eyes had asked him if it was okay, if they could work together, if they could stay together, if they could stand together with half their clothes on the floor or each other? What more could he have done?

 _Nothing,_ his mind told him. He’d done his best, he’d minded his feet, and he was still here, waiting in line to buy two coffees with his name under the rim of both cups. He was still here, hoping for a tiny table to sit at, the legroom so small two people almost _needed_ to be pressed together to sit together. Regardless of how he felt, or what he knew, he was still here.

And regardless of how he felt, or what he knew, he _wanted_ to be here, right here, because he knew Rick was walking up behind him, Rick's eyes on the side of his face, his fingers reaching for him and _only_ for him.

Because maybe he knew, the moment Rick got out of his seat across from Glenn; maybe he knew the moment Rick said his name, soft and slow, his step hurried and quick. Or maybe, it was because Daryl _finally_ admitted to himself that he was crazy, that Rick Grimes would never have agreed to a date if he didn't have feelings too...

Or maybe it had just been the look on Rick's face, the intensity of those beautiful blue eyes when they stopped, right there, half an inch from Daryl's nose. Or when Rick's hands slipped around the back of his head, his eyes closed and his head down.

"Rick," Daryl said, half a heartbeat before Rick moved closer—half a heartbeat before Rick _kissed_ him.

And then it didn't matter that this was insane, because all Daryl could think about was kissing him _back._


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (In case anyone missed my previous message, I changed the ending of chapter seventeen. If the beginning of this chapter surprises you, then you'll need to go back and read the new ending!)

Unexpected or not, Daryl hoped this kiss _meant_ something, that Rick’s hands in his hair and Rick’s lips on his mouth _meant_ something, just as sweet and gentle and lingering as the kiss was itself. Because otherwise, finding the shape of Rick’s body through his clothes was a mistake; reaching for his chest and pulling him close was a mistake. Because if everything had meant nothing, Daryl knew he had sealed his fate, first by leaning carefully into Rick’s touch, even as he pulled away, then by kissing him again, lightly and softly, as if he was too afraid to let him go.

Only Rick didn’t push him away; if anything, he seemed to slip more easily into Daryl’s touch, willing and eager, moving one of his hands to cup Daryl’s jaw, his fingers by Daryl’s ear. The touch was surprisingly tender, and Daryl fumbled, trying to return the contact but losing his nerve. Instead, he left his hands on Rick’s hips, circling him gingerly, like a brush of their bodies would set them both on fire.

The third kiss was Rick’s then, to give and to take, his lips warm and soft, the only sound his tiny whispers of breath as they left his mouth. It was enough to make Daryl smile—a reflex, maybe—as Rick moved in against him, the hum of his name like a secret in his throat, his eyes shut tightly, the tips of his fingers just under the hem of Rick’s shirt.

And that was all it might have been, if Daryl hadn't asked for a fourth kiss instead, leaning forward again, just a little, where Rick met him quickly, halfway, the fluttering of his pulse in his throat just a fragile thrum, delicate and needy. They shifted together then, pressing together, before Rick suddenly faltered.

Against Daryl's mouth, Rick's gasp sound was a quiet thing, trembling and soft, breathless and muffled, cut-off at the heart of it, stifled by surprise. His eyes were open now, his lips rosy and parted, his expression a mix of bliss and embarrassment, shame and alarm.

“Daryl,” he whispered, and abruptly, without warning, Daryl lost sight of the Rick Grimes he’d come to know, confident and self-assured, steady and unshakable. Instead, Rick looked just like he felt: vulnerable, timid, and maybe even a little afraid.

“I’m sorry,” Rick murmured, a light flush colouring his throat, creeping over the lines of his jaw and tangling around his mouth. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t think—”

But Daryl only smiled, a tiny ghosting of movement that tugged at the corner of his face. Because how else could he explain it? That as Rick had brushed against him, his body hard and needy, he had been just the same? That the little sound Rick had made, more exhale than gasp, more breath than noise, had turned him on even more?

There was simply nothing to say, so Daryl shook his head.

An awareness of the room came to him then, after that—a low burst of movement and colour. An awareness of the eyes first, then the voices, the ends of a dozen conversations floating in all around him. Had everyone been staring? Daryl turned to see, slowly, afraid of what he would find, but the only attention that lingered was Glenn’s, and he looked almost pleased, almost smug, his face partially buried behind a Styrofoam cup.

_He had known,_ Daryl realized, too dazed to concentrate on the thought. _What had he and Rick been talking about?_

But maybe not knowing was a mercy, because it was hard enough now, trying to turn back to the counter, to the smell of coffee still strong and powerful under his nose. Because how could he face some secret motive, some extra factor, when Rick had just…when Rick was still…?

Daryl trailed off, turning his head, peeking slowly over his shoulder—to where Rick still hadn't moved. To where Rick, out of the corner of his eyes, the colour set like blue pigment on the carving of his face, was watching him, seemingly too stunned to function. His lips were still pink, his breath was still hushed, and on his hips, warm and alone, his hands were still frozen, empty as the wind. He looked almost confused, his thoughts almost beyond him, torn between something sweet and all-consuming, his voice quiet and shy.

“Daryl,” he managed hoarsely, tersely, the sound half a question. “I can’t.”

And then it was out in the world, cryptic and lonely, Rick’s eyes moving to the ground, to the edge of his feet. It was like he didn’t know how to say it, how to make the shape with his mouth; it was like the letters were wider than his lips, the noise sharper than his tongue.

“You can’t what?” Daryl asked, too afraid to know. Too afraid he already knew.

But Rick surprised him. “The coffee,” he said gently, slowly reaching for his hand. It wasn't what he'd meant before, but he continued, his touch like a fleeting, stillborn hope, warm and cold and silver and gold. “Let’s get out of here.”

Daryl agreed; he had no choice but to follow. “Where will we go?” he asked, or murmured, or whispered. Everything was beginning to sound the same.

Rick held open the door, his arm between Daryl’s head and the twinkling of the bell. “My car,” he said. “Can we sit in my car?”

It wasn’t really a question, with his eyes like what they were, open but skittish, weary and lost. It made Daryl want to kiss him again, just to put the light back in his face. “I’ll follow you,” he said.

So they walked together, one after the other, Rick half a pace ahead, unsteady on his feet. He looked back, quick and hurried, from time to time, but Daryl tried not to stare, suddenly afraid to frighten him, as if the link between them was tenuous, sensitive as a bow string.

They separated only at the corner of the parking lot, maybe five minutes later, Rick turning towards the driver’s side, Daryl the hood of the car. But he never made it, more than a step; Rick caught up behind him, his breath out of rhythm, frantic as the trembling in his hands.

“The trunk,” he said quickly, touching Daryl’s arm, taking it, pushing him. “Please, just for a second.”

So Daryl moved, ducking his head, narrowly avoiding the low-hanging branch from a nearby tree, the leaves like firelight. “Rick,” he said quietly, almost too softly to be heard. “Are you okay?”

But Rick didn’t answer, not right away. Instead, he stepped around him, urging Daryl back, his waist against the trunk, the metal no higher than the belt on his jeans. “I’ve made it once,” he said hoarsely, his voice like dust. “Can I make it again?”

Daryl knew what he meant; it came to him instantly, like instinct. "Not if it's a mistake," he said carefully, moving first this time, his hands touching Rick’s face before sliding into his hair. "Not if it's a mistake."

The fading light in Rick’s eyes steeled into something crystalline, hard and sure. “Never,” he whispered. “You can’t be.”

And then Rick was kissing him again, possessive and greedy, gentle but eager, excited. “Why is that?” Daryl asked, his lips moving to Rick’s cheek, tracing something neither of them could see. Was he even doing this right?

Rick’s arms tightened behind his back. “Because I want it,” he answered, honest and true. “Because I want it more than anything.”

That made Daryl hesitate, for a moment absolutely hating himself. “Kiss me again,” he whispered harshly, “while you still have a girlfriend, and I’ll beat your fucking heart out of your ribs.”

Rick replied by pressing him back, against his car, kissing him deeply. Twice, three times. Again.

“Then we’ll never talk about it,” Rick said. “I promise. Just give me this.”

Daryl didn’t hesitate; he nodded again, humming softly under his breath, wishing Rick could touch his skin, his hands weaving hot and hurried lines under his clothes. “It’s a trade,” he finally managed, feeling Rick’s erection against his hip, his own against his thigh. “Don’t leave her, and I won’t tell.”

And that sounded fair, even to his own ears. Even as dread began to settle quietly in his blood like a poison he was nursing along with his beer.

“Kiss me again,” Rick murmured, his breath hot and close on Daryl’s neck. “Then get in the car. We’ll buy coffee at The Speakeasy.”

_That_ made Daryl shake his head, his hand moving quickly to cover Rick’s eyes. “Fuck, don’t make this weird,” he said, without a drop of heat in his voice. “You think I’m letting Carol see us together right now?”

And with that, Rick started laughing, high and hopeful, cheery and throaty, his lips dropping to Daryl’s collarbone. “Kiss me again, Daryl Dixon,” he said.

And despite how the sound of Rick's voice made him falter, Daryl smiled. It was all he could do.


	19. Chapter 19

Lori wasn’t sure when she'd stopped loving the slow smolder of Rick’s affection, or the tender, careful way he kissed her; when she had stopped caring for the lingering squeeze of his hands, or the wonderful heat of his chest. Even here, under the weight of his arm, alone in his car, she felt little. She couldn't care less for the smell of his cologne, or the cut of his shirt, and his smile made her stomach twist—more with guilt than with loneliness, but still. It cut her; where had she lost him? The boy with the carefree smile and the subtle, southern charm, with a laugh that kept her up all night, tossing and turning with her arms between the sheets. He had been everything to her once, his love gentle and soothing, heavy in her heart as a stone, warm and rosy and rich. It had been fun, and good, and easy—easy as loving a boy who sang along to the radio without noticing he was off-key, who had loved her before he had met her, a lifetime of care bundled away behind his hands like a gift to be shared.

Now all she felt was a shadow, cold and dark and shriveled, wispy and thin as a thread of fading smoke. It was ugly, mottled, and rotten, and the absence made her head spin, her throat close, and her eyes water, even as the movie they were watching flashed colours more vibrant than life. Nothing was right—Lori knew where they should be, where _she_ should be: in his lap, her hands in his hair, his thighs between her legs and his fingers under her shirt. They shouldn’t _really_ be watching the movie, not when no one else did; not when everyone else was making out, or having sex in their backseat. _That_ was what the drive-in theatre was _for_ , not the cute little date Rick had made it out to be. Now his arm, draped over her, was just beginning to feel like lead.

And when was the last time he'd even looked at her? Lori wasn’t sure, but when she turned her head, she knew he didn’t see her, his eyes watching the movement on the screen, the spaceships and the aliens, the asteroids and the laser beams. _This is one of my favourite movies,_ he’d said to her, his wallet in his cup holder as they’d lined up for tickets. _You’ll love it, I promise._

But she didn’t; she hadn’t loved a moment of it, from the wonky music to the strange, eerie lighting, surrounded by a parking lot that did nothing for the ambiance. Several of the cars to her left and right were completely empty, as if abandoned only to crowd the space around them, blocking the view into the other parked cars. Ahead of them, the screen lilted back and forth with the wind, like the sail on an old, proud ship, too well-loved to be taken from the violence of the sea.

Shane would never have taken her to a place like this, Lori realized; he’d have taken her to the beach, or the amusement park by the docks. He’d have spoiled her with a shopping trip, or an expensive movie ticket, or taken her out to dinner somewhere she loved. He’d have done it for _her_ , not planned a date for himself.

“Rick,” Lori whispered, knowing he hated it when she talked over the on-screen dialogue. “Is the movie much longer?”

It took him a long moment to turn, his eyes like weights, his attention nailed to any surface but her face. “You don’t like it?”

And then he looked at her, with an expression that was crossed between confusion and pain, his thoughts muddled behind his eyes like a curse, twisted and ill-meaning. Lori had only seen that look a small handful of times—so rarely she hardly knew what to do. Should she kiss him? Hold him? Stroke his hand? Was he hurting?

“Rick?” Lori asked again. “Are you okay?”

He turned to her, pulling himself away from the screen, smiling just enough to show that nothing was wrong. “Would you like some popcorn?”

Lori shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe a beer? There’s a guy walking around with a cooler.”

It took Rick longer to reply this time. “I have to drive,” he reminded her. “But I’ll buy one for you, if you want.”

Lori considered it. “Just some popcorn, then,” she said, her eyes on the drive shaft, then the steering wheel; drinking alone always made her feel like trash. “Throw in a bit of salt?”

But that was a mistake, something she regretted almost the moment she’d said it. Because without Rick in the car, she was alone again, the passenger-side seat almost impossible to sit in when the driver’s was empty, when her shoulders were bare and hands were aimless. But at least she wasn’t fidgeting, the silence like an illness; at least Rick wasn’t ignoring her, his attention on the windshield. It was a horrible trade.

Looking away, Lori forced herself to follow the sound of a car rolling in, the tires turning slowly over the loosely packed dirt. As it passed, Lori caught a glimpse of another couple in another car, kissing each other gently under the light from the movie screen. Watching them was like a slap in the face; well-deserved, maybe, but hideously unfair.

So with Rick gone another few minutes, Lori decided not to watch for him, knowing his hair would be dusted with shadows and his shoes with ash. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted butter,” he eventually said, climbing back into his seat. “So I got a little, just in case.”

Lori turned to him slowly, then looked down at the bag: it was small, and brown, and stained with butter all around the sides. But at least it smelled good. “Thank you,” Lori whispered, liking the heat of it between her palms. “I’ll have to get it next week.”

And then Rick smiled, in earnest this time, an ease curling between the bones of his hand. He pulled her close, their heads resting together. “Will you let me take you back here?” he asked. “I’ve been meaning to stop by.”

Lori kissed his cheek. “I’m sure you can convince me,” she teased.

Only Rick hadn’t heard her; his lips were pressed too tightly together, his eyes back on the screen. It just wasn’t right—Rick was never like this, so lackluster and quiet, his head in the clouds. It was like he wasn’t even there with her, even as his body held her close, his hand straying across the small of her back.

“Can I take you home with me?” he asked suddenly, once the movie was over. “Shane will be up, but he’ll be happy to see you.”

Lori froze; she wasn’t even sure what to say to that. “Sure, of course,” she said, imaging Shane sprawled out on the couch, his shirt rolled up against his stomach, his arm over his eyes. “But he’s always happy to see me, isn’t he?”

It was meant to be a joke, something coy and playful and teasing, but it came out all wrong, distant and airy. “Sorry, I missed that,” Rick said, starting the ignition and cutting through the night. “Say it again?”

But it wasn’t worth it, really. “Nothing, it’s okay,” Lori said, folding up the popcorn bag along the creases in the paper. “I’m pretty sleepy anyway.”

_Lie,_ her mind told her, as she looked slowly out the window, to where the line to exit the theatre was cluttered with couples and cars. _Lie because it’s easier. Lie because it’s better._

Only it wasn’t, and it’d never been, even here, where she felt more invisible than alive, part of the greater mass of nameless, shapeless people leaving the drive-in. She’d have enjoyed it, she knew: the smell of the car, the sounds of the movie, the flashing lights, the music. Sex in the backseat would have been interesting, something she’d never done before. Now it was just another loss.

“Can I talk to you?” Lori asked, raising her voice above the drawl of the radio. On her right, the streetlamps lit the road in broken pockets, the asphalt like a checkerboard. “It’s something important.”

Rick didn’t turn. “Important enough to pull over?” he asked. “Or important like, school-related?”

Lori folded her arms. Between her ribs, she felt something defensive flare red and hot, even though the space beneath it was empty. “Are you bored with me?” she asked.

Rick turned off the radio. “What are you talking about?” he asked cautiously, his eyes sweeping over her face, his hand moving to her arm. “Where did you get that idea from?”

But she didn't answer right away; it was suddenly too hard to breathe, to swallow past the heat that rose against her skin, against the place where Rick had touched her, open and close. “It’s just that…I mean, we’ve been together for a couple of months, and we still haven’t…”

Lori shrugged now, easing the weight in her throat. Had they still been at the theatre, she would have gestured around her, taking in the cars and the couples with a simple flick of her hand. Instead, they were alone on the road, heading back to Rick’s apartment building like there was more for them to find, more passion for them to stumble into, headfirst, thoughtless and fearless.

Rick stopped the car. “Would you marry me, if I asked you?”

Lori flinched. _That_ was a turn in the conversation taken sharper than a nosedive, the water a pinprick of blue in the darkness beyond the clouds. “Oh my god, are you insane?” she asked, in lieu of her reply. “Rick, I’m not even twenty-one yet. We’re not even serious.”

But that was the wrong thing to say. All the colour in Rick’s face seemed to darken, his hand retracting like he’d been struck. “We’re not even serious?” he whispered, deathly quiet against the soft rumble of the car. “We’re not even—fuck, how could you say that?”

Rick sounded so hurt, so wounded, that Lori felt something in her heart shatter in two. It was worse than knowing she’d made a mistake, worse than knowing she’d been wrong, because—

“We’ve just never talked about it,” she said, trying to backpedal, trying to ignore the chanting sound of Shane’s voice in her head. _If he didn’t ask you to be serious, we can still do this. It’s not cheating._

“Did we have to?” Rick asked, his voice harsher now, bitter around the edges. “We’re dating; you’re my girlfriend. I love you. How is that not serious enough for you?”

Lori felt her hands starting to shake, her limbs going cold and dark, like she’d been locked in a freezer, the chill slowly killing her. “I just thought—I didn’t know for sure, I mean, this is great but—”

_“But?”_ Rick echoed, his face cut in the poor light, his mouth set by the streetlamp, his eyes by the moon. “But what? I’m not serious enough if I don’t sleep with you? If I just want us to be careful?”

“We can use a condom,” Lori countered. “I don’t want to start the pill. I don’t want to take hormones; I don’t want to have to take them every day.”

“But you don’t have to,” Rick said, something sad in his voice now. “There are shots, and patches, and…fuck, Lori, I’d take it myself if they made it for men.”

That put her over the edge. “Why are you _so fucking afraid_ I’ll get pregnant?” Lori asked, her voice quickly rising to a yell, pitching in her throat. “Or is it just an excuse? So you can ask me for something you know I don’t want? Or do you not _want_ to have sex? Sex with _me?_ With _women?”_

But that was a mistake, more horrible than she’d realized; Rick looked like he’d been struck, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Is that what this is?” he asked, his voice deathly cool. “You think I won’t sleep with you because I’m _gay?”_

The accusation made Lori blanch; it cut too close to the truth—too close to the thought of him with someone else, _sleeping_ with someone else. But surely that couldn’t be true? If he’d always thought they’d been serious?

“That’s not what I meant,” Lori huffed, crossing her arms and turning away from him, wishing it was raining so she could focus on the window, on the long streaks of water as they moved towards the street. “It just hurts me, Rick. You make me feel ugly, and I hate it.”

Then she started to cry, softly and horribly, into the loose strands of her hair. When had this happened? Lori moved her hand to touch her face, her eyes, her mouth, to try and control the sobs she felt building at the nape of her neck. When had everything changed so much?

But there was no answer; not in her own mind, and not from Rick, the sound of his seat-belt and door handle warning her he’d gotten out of the car. Was he leaving her? She turned her head, but she could hardly see him, even as his shoes made a hard sound on the asphalt, clipped and serious.

“Hey, hey, don’t ever think that,” he said, hushed, by her ear. She moved easily into his arms, the open passenger-side door like a shield between them and the night. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Please don’t cry.”

But Lori couldn’t stop now; the tears were hot and fast on her face, and they felt good, better than anything she’d felt all day—even with Shane. Especially with Shane.

Only, thinking of Shane made her cry even harder, for the way he’d looked at her in the bathroom just that morning, her hair over her shoulders and her clothes on the floor. He’d told her he loved her, but if he’d known they’d been cheating, the pair of them, on Rick, his _best friend_ …

Lori hiccuped, the sound small and broken and muffled. What had she done?

“Rick,” Lori choked out, sniffling against his chest. “There’s something else I have to tell you.”

He squeezed her tighter, rubbing her back in small circles. “You know you can talk to me,” he said.

But she couldn’t say it, couldn’t force out the words. _If we’ve always been serious, have I always been cheating?_ The thought alone broke her heart.

“Can we start again?” she asked him instead, seeing her way out and hating herself—hating herself for thinking of it, for taking it. “Just…you and me. Honest. Committed.”

Rick wanted to nod; she could feel the halfhearted movement against her cheek. Instead, he shook against her, the movement like a shiver, cold and sharp and jagged. “Starting now?” he asked softly.

“I just want to forget we talked about this,” Lori said, cutting him off. “Maybe I’ll look into the shot, I don’t know. Anything’s better than what I’m feeling right now.” And then she laughed, a harsh sound, too out-of-place to be appropriate. “I just want to feel beautiful.”

Rick hummed softly into her hair, his breath on her forehead. “You _are_ beautiful,” he told her. “I try to tell you every day.”

Lori choked back a sob in response; it felt real and true, hearing Rick say it, warm and soft and golden and pure. “I love you,” she said, and she meant it, with everything she had.

“I love you too,” Rick said, his eyes on the street, on the dirt, on the mud and the paint and the darkness. “We’ll just…we’ll be honest, alright? After this. You need to talk to me.”

Lori nodded. “I will,” she whispered. “I will, I promise.”

But what could she do? Here, in the night, with Rick, it was easy—facing Shane, in the morning, in the next ten minutes, in class, knowing she needed to leave him…

“Lori?” Rick whispered, waiting for her to answer something he’d asked her, something she’d missed.

Only she couldn’t speak. Not a word. Because she needed to leave Shane, and she had no idea how to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm sorry I've fallen a bit behind, and I'm sorry things are a little convoluted right now. But I swear, if love was straightforward, it wouldn't be what is it. Please be patient? Things will turn up :)


	20. Chapter 20

It was just shy of five in the morning, the first rays of dawn tender at the edge of the horizon, when Rick’s car, suddenly and abruptly, ran out of gas. It was, unceremoniously, a quiet, choking end to a long drive that had taken him over seven hours, his one achievement that he’d lasted just as long without thinking of Lori. _I’ll be back,_ he’d told her, as she’d slipped out of his car. Now he knew she had spent the entire night alone.

Still, Rick knew it was stupid to blame her; stupider still to be mad at her, for something that clearly wasn’t her fault. In the back of his mind, Rick knew it was Daryl's, everything about their shared afternoon still trapped under his skin. It was what made calling him so much harder now, even though Rick had no other choice.

So he waited as the phone rang. Once. Twice. Again. “Daryl?” Rick asked, whispering into the receiver, hearing the line click sharply on the other side. “Hello?

But there was no reply. A few moments later, there was a sudden rustling sound, but still, no response. Then, a frantic, husky sigh broke the silence, the sound a cross between breathing and cursing. “Merle?” Daryl mumbled, breathless and frantic. “Christ, what the fuck happened?”

Rick closed his eyes. “Daryl,” he said softly, knowing panic like this, harsh and hideous. “I’m so sorry. It’s me; it’s Rick.”

Daryl paused then, his breath shaking out of him like slivers pulled from his skin. He took nearly a minute to compose himself, the sounds in the background of the call fading away. “Oh god,” he said softly, relief mixed with the obvious sound of his body falling back on his bed. “Usually when someone calls me this late, it’s Merle telling me he’s been picked up by the fucking cops.”

“That must be pretty stressful,” Rick replied, trying to lighten the mood. “But I didn’t mean to scare you. I feel shitty enough knowing I woke you.”

Daryl laughed in response to that, a short sound, clipped and hard. “I only fell asleep—what, twenty minutes ago? Just for a second.” He sighed again, turning over on his mattress, the creaking of the box spring filling the line. “I guess you had trouble sleeping too?”

Rick looked out the windshield of his car, at the dark, empty park to his right and the quiet, brightly lit residential street to his left. He wasn’t even sure where he was, or how far he had managed to drive from his apartment. “You could say that,” he said.

There was another rustling sound now, crisper this time, like a leg shrugging into a pair of jeans. “Are you in trouble?” Daryl asked softly. “It’s five in the morning, and I can hear your car running. Where are you?”

Rick still wasn’t sure. So he looked around again, through his passenger-side window, and spotted a street sign, crossed with another at the nearby intersection. “I’m a Front Street and Dockside,” he replied, resting his forearms on the steering wheel. “And uh, I may be out of gas.”

Daryl hesitated. “No one else you know has a car?”

Rick smiled into his wrist at that; he could just imagine Daryl sprawled on his bed, half-dressed, his feet already aimed towards the door. “Are you trying to say you won’t bail me out?”

Daryl snorted. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. You need anything besides gas? Breakfast? A blanket?”

It shouldn’t have made him smile, but Rick almost laughed, the tightness in his chest giving way to something brighter, something softer. “I’m good,” he replied. “Just you.”

And then there was silence again, gentler than before, rosy around the edges like the colour Daryl’s lips had turned, his tongue darting out between kisses. Was he imagining the same?

Rick ran his fingers through his hair. This wasn’t helping anything.

“Daryl,” Rick said quickly, as more sounds filled the line: keys lifting from a bedside table, a belt clicking into place. “Hey. You still there?”

Daryl mumbled something noncommittal, his jaw mashed into the receiver by his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m still here. You doing okay?”

Rick couldn’t even answer that, a budding sense of dread dropping back into his stomach, black and white and curling and evil. “Should I have called?” he asked softly.

There was a moment’s pause, and then Rick heard Daryl’s breath catch, a small sound in the back of his throat, heavy with emotion. “I’m glad you called,” he said gently, a little awkward now, almost uncomfortable. “You just hang tight, okay? I won’t hear the phone ring while I’m riding, but call me if anything happens.”

It was a sweet response, well-meant and well-meaning. Reassuring, even, in its way. “I will,” Rick replied. “And listen: I owe you one. Thank you.”

Daryl smiled. “Don’t mention it.”

And then the line lingered, just for a heartbeat, the seconds trailing by on the counter across Rick’s screen. He watched the numbers as they turned, slowly, one by one, until eventually Daryl hung up, the click shaking straight through his hand.

Rick swore then, harsh and cruel, before putting down the phone, waiting as Daryl’s name slowly began to fade, the screen getting dark and darker until everything was gone. _Is this what it would be?_ Rick wondered, looking up to watch the street for the headlights of Daryl’s bike, the early strings of dawn warping the nearby houses into caricatures, blocky and bloated. _Is this what we would be?_

It was a dangerous thing to consider; more dangerous than imagining the two of them sleeping together, the thoughts powered by impulse and feeling. Imagining the two of them _dating_ betrayed real, serious interest, and as Rick entertained it, he couldn’t help but wonder why he could—why he would even _want_ to. Was he unhappy? Was his relationship with Lori completely unsalvageable?

Again, his mind brought him back to Glenn, to the instigator of everything right and everything wrong that had happened all afternoon. _You’re only human,_ he’d said; _you can’t live your whole life without ever looking at someone else. Maybe you love Lori, maybe you’re super committed, but there’s beautiful people everywhere: you’re bound to look eventually._

But looking had been the easy part; it was the contact that was hard, the lingering touches, the brush of skin against skin. It was having to ignore the feeling of Daryl’s hands on his chest, on his arms, and around his waist; it was having ignore the feeling of Daryl’s hair in his hands and Daryl’s lips on his cheek. Now that he had crossed that line, Rick knew there was no going back; the moment he had taken off his shirt, letting Daryl touch his ribs, it was over. He had broken the rules.

So maybe letting Daryl kiss him wasn’t the worst of it; maybe kissing Daryl _first_ wasn’t the worst of it. Maybe he’d made the mistake when he first offered up his arm, watching as Daryl wrote his number down in long, looping strokes; maybe he’d let everything go the moment—

But fuck, did it matter? Rick bowed his head, resting his temple on the top edge of the steering wheel. It didn’t, really; what mattered now was how he was going to make everything right, how he was going to make it up to himself, to Lori, and to Daryl. Because he’d gotten himself into this mess, and he was determined to get himself—and everyone else—out.

So with that in mind, Rick eased himself slowly from the car, keeping his eyes on the distant specks of light that rolled down the distant streets. The sound of the motorcycle came later, like a crack in the sky, the rev of the engine breaking over the crest in the road like the tide on the beach. It was a rumbling, a growling, then a thrum, a steady note that hung in the crisp morning air like the bass from a speaker, deep and throaty. It was a vibration Rick could feel in his feet, even as the air around him stirred, humming with energy.

Waving felt a little foolish, admittedly, but Rick managed a brief, half-salute, his other hand on his hip, his car silent and dark at his side. Daryl rolled to a stop just in front of him, maybe half a foot from the front bumper, his sunglasses the only thing visible through the visor on his helmet.

“Thanks again for coming,” Rick said, walking up to the side of Daryl’s bike as he shrugged out of his backpack. “Can I help?”

Daryl pulled off his helmet, his dark hair mussed by the friction, a line of sweat making his bangs stick to his forehead. “Take the gas can?” he asked, unzipping his bag and holding out the red plastic container. “It’s a little heavy, but I couldn’t fill it all the way. It’s a pain to ride with.”

Rick nodded in response, taking it with both hands, letting the bulk of it settle against him, the smell of the gasoline both a comfort and a pain. “It’ll be enough to get me home,” he said, recognizing the weight. “More than enough. Thank you.”

Daryl shrugged. “You can stop saying that now,” he said, leaving his backpack on his bike seat, his helmet on the handle bar. “You’ve have done it for me.”

Rick smiled. “I would’ve,” he said. “Even at this godforsaken hour. Doesn’t mean I’m not thankful though.”

Daryl shrugged again, quickly, moving closer, watching as Rick poured the gasoline into his tank, his breath a light movement between them, warmer than their hands. “You’re welcome, alright?” he said, leaning back against the side of Rick’s car, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m just glad you’re not stuck out here. It’s kind of shitty at this hour.”

Rick closed his eyes, measuring the pace of his heart. He wished it was steadier—that his hands were steadier. “Were you worried about me?” he asked.

Daryl met his eyes, waiting for them to open again, waiting for the chance to hold them down with his own. “Of course I was,” Daryl said honestly, his voice low. “No one calls someone they hardly know at five in the morning unless it’s an emergency.”

And there it was. Were they nothing but strangers again?

“Are you mad at me?” Rick asked, lifting the gas can a little higher, hoping to get the last few litres from the curve at the bottom. “Be honest. Do you still want to work with me?”

Daryl looked away, but his attention stayed on Rick’s face, his body angled carefully, the tension in his arms purely defensive. “I’m not mad, Rick,” he said pointedly, his back still against the side of the car. “I just—yeah, I’ve been worried about you all fucking night. Shoot me.”

But he wasn’t angry; Rick could sense it, the bitterness in his voice only there to protect his pride, or maybe to smother his embarrassment. “Thank you,” Rick said, softly, quietly, gently—in all the ways he could say something earnestly, with more feeling than pain, with more compassion than sympathy. “But why me? You’re the one I’ve been worried about; you’re the one that matters.”

And just like that, the tension shattered, the stiffness in Daryl’s face fading into something smoother, something resigned. “I knew you would call,” Daryl said. “You seem like that kind of guy. Did you talk to Lori?”

Rick looked back at the gas can. “You asked me not to,” he said.

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t think about it,” Daryl countered. “Doesn’t mean you didn't want to. And I mean, you can; it’s not up to me. I just don’t want...” he trailed off. “I don’t think…I didn’t think…I mean, fuck. _Fuck._ I had this.”

And with that, Daryl suddenly stepped away from the curb, dropping his arms. He looked afraid, and for a moment, thinking he was leaving, Rick reached out, touching his elbow, pulling him back. “Don’t,” Rick said.

That made Daryl look up, the pair of them closer than before, the safe pocket of distance between them fading away. “Don’t what?” he asked. “Don’t move?” And then his eyes dropped to Rick’s mouth.

It suddenly cost Rick everything he had, just then, not to kiss Daryl’s neck, not to push him back against the car and hold him there, his hands on his face. It had been unconscious, maybe, but Rick loved the invitation, the teasing, even as it tore through him all over again, breaking his resolve.

“This is a disaster,” Rick said, returning the look before raising his eyes, before looking away. “Can I be honest with you?”

Daryl relaxed under his hand, moving closer—but only just. “Only if I can be honest afterwards,” he replied.

That made Rick smile, the laughter back in his eyes, appreciation sparking in his chest for the simple nod of Daryl’s head and the subtle shift in his shoulders. Daryl _trusted_ him; there was no other way to explain it. And god did that feel good.

“I took Lori out tonight,” Rick said, “to the little drive-in on the other side of town. The theatre. You know it?”

Daryl grinned at that, wide and unexpected. “Yeah, actually,” he said. “I know the owner.” Then he smiled again, almost sheepish now. “You notice the empty cars in the lot? That was actually _my_ idea. I think they make the place feel older, like a piece from the nineties.”

Rick screwed on his gas cap, trying not to laugh. “I don’t think Lori liked it,” he said, shrugging as casually as he could manage. “But I thought it was kind of cool; different, you know? We usually just go out for dinner.”

“Let me know the next time you go,” Daryl said. “I can get you any spot you want. Front row, back row—name it, it’s yours.”

Rick raised his eyes, up and up, until he could just see the last few stars in the reddening sky, winking a little as the fading blackness spirited them away. When he looked back at Daryl, he was smiling, his head turned a little to the side.

“I really like you, Daryl,” Rick admitted. “It makes me feel like a bad person, but I do.”

Daryl covered his mouth, not shocked, but thoughtful, serious. “You hardly know me,” he said in reply. “And I hardly know you.”

Rick shrugged. “Then what is this? Chemistry?”

“Hormones,” Daryl said immediately. “It’s fucking hormones. That’s the only answer I have.”

But he was being cheeky, and it sounded cheeky, Daryl’s smile almost playful now, despite the way his arms went back to his chest, defensive again. Rick nodded slowly, trying to buy time. “I’d like to know you,” he said honestly, trying to read behind Daryl’s eyes, trying to understand how close they were to something real, something genuine. “And I’d like for you to know me. But I want to know where your boundaries are.”

Daryl turned his head, looking out onto the street. “You love your girl, don’t you?” he asked.

“I thought I would marry her once,” Rick replied. “And maybe a month ago, I really wanted to. But she said some shit tonight, and I…”

His trailed off, his expression dark. He could feel it, at the base of his spine, spiking up through his body. Maybe this was too much; maybe this was something he didn’t want to share. But Daryl felt safe; like the right person to tell.

Rick turned his back against the car, letting the words crawl out of him, breathless and painful. “I think she’s been cheating on me,” he said.

There a brief moment of silence then, tight and horrid, but Daryl moved quickly, stepping out in front of Rick, not close enough to pin him back, but close enough to feel the push from his body. And his eyes had steeled, first with something Rick had never seen before: ferocity, maybe, then violence.

“Do you forgive her?” he asked.

Rick wasn’t sure what to do with that question. It cut him, closer to the bone than he’d ever been. A clean cut, but one that stung all the same. “Should _she_ forgive _me?”_ he asked.

Daryl sighed. After a moment, he crossed his arms and uncrossed them again. “It was just a kiss,” he said, holding out his hands. “Cheating is…it’s different. It's serious.”

Rick shivered, something flinching inside his chest. “You sound like you know,” he said softly.

But Daryl was already turning away. “You’re the only one,” he said carefully. “I’ve never even kissed someone else. But you can’t look at me like I should—fuck, I should…”

He started walking away again, out into the road, where the light from the streetlamps was brightest, where the oncoming traffic would run him down like an animal. In the shadow cast from his back, he was cut like a statue, nothing but lines and curves.

“We’re just friends, Rick,” Daryl said, finally turning back. He’d composed himself so quickly, in the blink of an eye. He held out his hands again, after running one of them through his hair, the movement pulling up the bottom of his shirt, flashing just a thin strip of skin. “I want to be your friend. But I like you too.”

Rick let out his breath, all at once. He hadn’t been holding it, but it had felt trapped inside his mouth, hot and heavy and humid. “So what do we do?” he asked.

Daryl raised his eyes. “If you want to leave Lori, do it for you. But I know you won’t; you’re too good for that. Too committed.” He shrugged. “And maybe you love her too much.”

“And you don’t mind?” Rick asked. “You make it sound like we’re having an affair. Like you’re destroying my home.”

Daryl smiled. “You gave me a key,” he said, sounding playful again. “Just stop fucking outing me in public and we can make something work. You and me. And Lori.” He shrugged again. “Or not.”

Rick stepped up, stepped closer. “Why are you so calm about this?” he asked. “Loyal to your first kiss?” Then he flushed, just a little. “God, I hope it was good.”

Daryl laughed in response to that, the sound a small thing, premature but real. “You know it was,” he said, his eyes down. “And I don’t know. I honestly never thought I’d ever get to talk to you, and now…friends is good. Friends is probably all I have.”

Rick bumped his shoulder, using his palm, then his fist. It felt good; strange, but good. Like he could breathe again, like he was closer to being whole than he’d been all night. “Why didn’t I call you at 11?” he asked, raising his eyebrow. “It would have saved me an entire can of gas.”

Daryl traced his bottom lip with his tongue, something in the back of his mind clicking into place. “I don’t know what I would have said,” he admitted. “Something harsher, maybe. You’re a jerk.”

And then they both started smiling, easy and bright, calmer and steady, a ship with a lighthouse. “This is a fucking disaster,” Rick said again.

Daryl waved him away. “If we just keep our hands to ourselves, we’ll make it,” he said, heading back towards his motorcycle, revving the engine, loving the sound of it, his helmet in his hands. “And I fucking hate the second row, but I’ll come down and sit with you on Thursday?”

That made Rick laugh again, despite himself, happier than he’d been in a long time. “I’ll save you a seat,” he said softly. “I promise.”


End file.
